ANNE  DILLON 
-1922- 


THE  ]  [BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


This  novel  of  French  peasant  life  won  the 
Prix  Concourt  awarded  by  the  Academy  in 
1920.  Its  success  was  instantaneous.  Every- 
where it  was  hailed  as  the  finest  interpreta- 
tion in  years  of  the  spirit  of  rural  France. 
The  sale  of  the  book  ran  to  ninety  thousand 
copies  in  a  few  months. 

For  American  readers  this  beautiful  and 
authentic  picture  of  agricultural  France  with 
its  simple,  rugged  outlines,  its  sectional  differ- 
ences, its  mighty  bonds  of  conservatism  and 
convention  is  a  most  impressive  setting  for 
the  romance,  the  tragedy,  the  maternal  ten- 
derness and  passion  that  go  to  ma^e  NENE 
a  work  °f  genius. 


NENE 

ERNEST    PEROCHON 


N  E  N  E 


Translated  from  the  French  of 

ERNEST  PEROCHON 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


COPYRIGHT,    1922, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


College 
Library 


N  E  N  E 

PART  I 


A    <\f~^  f    -f  MV~» 

IvJoiXYfa 


NENE 

PART  ONE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  air  was  alive  and  young;  the  earth  steamed. 
Behind  the  plough  a  thousand  little  vapours 
rose,  individual,  separate,  feathery;  they  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  rise  high  above  the  earth,  as  if  glad 
to  escape  from  the  weight  of  the  clods.  Then  they 
floated  down  again  and  settled  at  last,  like  drowsy 
plumes.  The  slanting  breath  of  the  oxen  kept 
ahead  of  the  team  and,  rising,  covered  the  six 
animals  with  a  whiter  vapour,  through  which 
danced  whirls  of  flies. 

Wag-tails  were  fluttering  from  furrow  to  furrow; 
those  nearest  looking  like  fussy,  coquettish  little 
ladies,  the  others  being  nothing  more  than  drifting 
flakes  of  mist.  You  could  hardly  make  them  out 
singly,  but  you  were  aware  of  great  crowds  of  them, 
all  busily  hunting  for  the  slow-moving,  awkward 
grubs,  bewildered  at  being  turned  up  to  the  light  of 
day.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  field  a  magpie  stood 

9 


10  NENE 

out  clear,  stiff  and  self-important  as  a  dapper  con- 
stable. 

Above  the  mist  the  golden  wonder  of  the  sun- 
light held  sway.  The  upper  mould-board  of  the 
heavy  plough  gleamed  bright  and  the  colter,  as  it 
caught  the  glint  of  the  sun,  looked  like  the  stubby 
sword  of  a  dwarf  knight,  stocky  and  slow. 

Two  men  were  at  work  in  the  field;  the  younger, 
a  lad  of  seventeen  or  eighteen,  with  limbs  still  loose- 
jointed  and  enormous  hands,  was  spreading  manure. 
He  sang  as  he  worked.  The  immature  voice  ex- 
ploded in  heavy  gusts  of  song  which,  for  all  that, 
rang  out,  so  resonant  was  the  air. 

The  man  at  the  plough  did  not  sing,  but  like  nis 
companion,  he  felt  the  joy  of  the  moment.  He  had 
had  a  Sunday's  rest  and  as  he  began  the  week,  his 
implement  felt  light  to  his  hand.  He  was  tall  and 
straight,  with  a  finely  chiseled  head  and  rather  long 
legs.  His  round  hat,  stuck  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  left  uncovered  his  lean,  brown,  clean-shaven 
face.  His  black  eyes  were  quick  and  roving. 

He  drove  his  animals  with  a  skilled  hand,  with- 
out any  shouting.  Yet,  he  was  breaking  in  two 
young  bullocks,  but  he  had  placed  them  in  the 
middle  of  the  team  and  immediately  worked  them 
so  hard  that  they  were  soon  under  control,  panting 
and  submissive.  Even  at  the  headland  the  bullocks 
meekly  followed  their  leaders.  All  the  ploughman 
had  to  do  was  to  quietly  lift  his  plough  and  turn  it 


NENE  n 

back,  without  fear  that  his  team  would  drag  him 
beyond  the  starting  point  of  the  new  furrow. 

He  had  expected  to  find  the  soil  too  dry  and  so 
had  harnessed  three  yoke  for  a  deep  ploughing.  It 
was  well  that  he  had. 

He  had  placed  his  regulator  at  the  last  notch  and 
the  sock  bit  in  easily  and  deeply.  The  "heel"  of 
the  plough  left  on  the  headland  a  trail  of  fresh 
earth  and  the  moist  clods  crumbled  and  fell  apart 
of  themselves  in  the  sun;  a  light  harrowing,  and 
the  soil  would  be  ready,  as  fine  as  dust. 

The  eyes  of  the  ploughman  twinkled,  because  all 
his  thought  was  on  his  work  and  it  was  the  sort  of 
work  he  liked. 

As  he  came  within  ten  paces  of  the  hedge,  a  voice 
asked, 

"How  goes  the  work?" 

"Mighty  well,"  he  answered. 

"Grand  weather!"  said  the  other. 

"It's  a  blessing!" 

He  eased  his  plough  and  stopped  the  oxen.  Be- 
tween two  hazel  branches  appeared  the  big  blond 
head  of  a  giant  of  a  man. 

"Good  morning,  Trooper,"  said  the  farmer.  "It's 
you !  I  didn't  know  your  voice." 

"It's  me.  Hello,  Corbier!  You  have  a  strong 
team  there,  and  a  fine  plough." 

"I've  no  fault  to  find  with  them,"  said  the  plough- 
man with  a  touch  of  pride.  They  were  silent  for  a 


12  NENE 

moment,  smiling  at  the  work  done,  and  their  eyes 
caressed  the  six  shiny,  well  muscled  backs  and  the 
new  plough  lying  flat  on  the  earth,  like  a  strong, 
lean  bird. 

Then  Corbier  lifted  his  Eead  and  asked, 

"What  news?" 

"Nothing  you  don't  know.  I  just  took  my  sister 
to  your  house.  You  hired  her  from  to-day,  didn't 
you?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you'd  forgotten?" 

"Not  at  all !  Only,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  you  in 
that  connection.  It  wasn't  you  I  hired;  your  hands 
are  a  bit  large  for  a  servant  girl's." 

The  big  fellow  broke  into  a  slow  laugh  that 
showed  his  white  teeth;  and  the  farmer  went  on: 

"You  aren't — maybe — stretching  out  Sunday  a 
little,  Trooper?" 

The  laugh  was  cut  short. 

"I'm  not  one  of  your  town  boys.  A  bit  of  a  spree 
doesn't  drive  me  to  bed,  nor  upset  my  work  days. 
And  don't  you  forget  it,  Corbier!" 

"No  offence,  I  hope " 

"Oh,  not  much — I  usually  work  on  Monday.  But 
to-day  is  my  day  off.  I  kept  out  four  days  in  the 
year  like  that,  for  my  mother,  in  my  bargain  with 
the  boss.  One  when  it's  getting  on  to  winter,  to 
'tend  to  the  firewood;  two  for  the  garden;  and  the 
fourth  for  things  unforeseen — odd  jobs,  as  you 
might  say." 

"I  know,"  said  Corbier. 


NENE  13 

The  other,  once  started,  ran  on. 

"This  morning,  I've  been  digging  since  dawn.  I 
wasn't  playing  at  it,  either — though  the  soil  was 
easy.  I've  spaded  the  whole  patch  and  spaded  it 
deep.  There  won't  be  much  weeding  needed,  after 
me." 

Corbier  nodded  approval  and  the  big  fellow  con- 
tinued : 

"It  was  like  this.  Madeleine  came  out  to  where 
I  was  in  the  garden  patch  and  said,  'You  come  and 
help  me/  so  I  carried  her  bundles  for  her  and  took 
her  along  the  road  within  sight  of  the  Moulinettes. 
Then  I  came  back  by  the  short  cut,  because  I  don't 
like  folks  to  see  me  on  the  highways  on  working 
days." 

"Right!"  said  Corbier. 

"It  was  just  to  please  her  that  I  went  along  with 
her.  Madeleine  didn't  really  need  me  to  help  her. 
I  don't  want  to  boast  about  her,  Corbier,  but  speak- 
ing of  a  woman's  strength,  there  aren't  many 
stronger  than  her  in  these  parts.  Now  I'm  off. — 
You've  got  a  fine  piece  of  land  there ! — Good-bye !" 

As  the  man  disappeared,  Corbier  righted  his 
plough  and  started  on  a  new  furrow.  But  he  was 
unable  to  keep  his  thoughts  on  his  animals  and  his 
work.  Instead,  they  now  strayed  toward  things  dis- 
turbing and  sad.  This  meeting  had  stirred  him  as 
his  plough  stirred  the  soil.  A  mist  settled  over  his 
heart,  a  heavy  mist  through  which  the  sun  did  not 


14  NENE 

shine  and  where  no  birds  fluttered.  Not  that  there 
had  ever  been  between  him  and  that  big  fellow 
whom  he  had  called  Trooper  anything  but  the 
ordinary  exchange  of  good  will;  and  as  for  this 
Madeleine  who  was  to  be  his  servant  now,  he  hardly 
knew  her. 

No,  these  people  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  sor- 
row; but  they  brought  home  to  him  the  burden  he 
had  to  bear. 

A  widower  at  thirty,  he  found  himself  alone  with 
a  farm  to  manage  and  two  babies  on  his  hands.  Of 
course,  he  still  had  his  father  with  him,  but  the  old 
man  was  so  often  crippled  with  rheumatism  that  he 
was  rather  a  drag  than  a  help.  There  was  no  one 
to  lend  a  hand,  little  ready  money,  and  no  one  to 
run  the  house. 

His  worries  began  eleven  months  ago:  to  him  it 
seemed  eleven  years.  At  first  he  had  hired  an 
elderly  woman  to  keep  house  for  him.  She  was 
very  good  and  gentle  with  the  babies,  but  untidy 
and  absolutely  incapable  of  running  the  house. 
Then  came  his  sister-in-law,  efficient  enough,  but 
frivolous,  hard  and,  worst  of  all,  obviously  and 
boldly  intent  on  catching  him.  She  had  to  go,  after 
an  unpleasant  scene. 

Now  his  father  had  hired  this  Madeleine  Clar- 
andeau. 

Corbier  knew  the  family.  The  mother,  a  widow 
on  the  threshold  of  old  age,  worked  out  by  the  day. 


NENE  15 

The  children,  three  girls  and  a  boy,  were  hired  by 
the  year  on  farms  round  about,  and  helped  her  with 
a  little  money.  The  boy  was  said  to  be  one  of  the 
best  farm  hands,  though  rather  too  fond  of  drink 
and,  when  under  its  influence,  a  dangerous  chap  to 
quarrel  with.  The  girls  of  the  family  he  knew  less 
about.  Least  of  all  the  eldest,  Madeleine,  who  had 
been  working  away  from  home,  in  the  Vendee,  for 
several  years. 

Now  this  unknown  woman  was  to  keep  house  for 
him !  A  big,  strong  girl,  her  brother  had  said.  He 
hadn't  bargained  for  so  much  physical  strength. 
Clumsy  fingers  were  not  fit  to  care  for  Lalie  and 
little  Georges.  A  hulky  person,  probably, — 
exuberantly  merry  and  insolently  healthy.  He  had 
agreed  to  pay  her  high  wages,  too;  altogether,  he 
felt  irritated  over  the  whole  situation. 

The  young  bullocks,  no  longer  feeling  his  eye  on 
them,  suddenly  drew  wide.  He  beat  them  back 
mercilessly.  The  young  farm  hand  paused  in  his 
work  near  by,  a  song  on  his  lips.  Corbier  yelled 
at  him: 

"Use  your  muscle,  damn  it!  Much  good  your 
fiddle-faddle's  doing!" 

The  boy  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then,  insolently, 
began  a  loud  whistling  of  the  same  tune  and  re- 
sumed his  work, — as  leisurely  and  gawky  as  ever. 

Corbier  felt  lonely  and  weak,  without  the  sup- 
port of  human  sympathy.  Why  had  Marguerite 


16  NENE 

had  to  die  *?  He  found  himself  mumbling  words  that 
only  accentuated  the  sadness  of  his  mood. 

"Marguerite,  why  did  you  leave  me  so  soon"? 
Why  did  you  leave  my  house  for  God's  house? 
Why  are  you  no  longer  on  the  threshold  when  I 
come  home  from  the  fields'?  .  .  .  Marguerite,  your 
children  are  neglected  by  strangers.  My  eyes  find 
no  light  in  the  sunshine,  my  heart  no  joy  under 
Heaven." 

He  had  come  upon  a  stiff  piece  of  soil,  where  the 
oxen  needed  urging. 

"Come  on,  Galant!  Vermeil!  Up,  lads!"  His 
voice  died  away  in  a  quaver.  He  drew  himself  up, 
threw  back  his  head  in  defiance.  "Chatain !  Lamou- 
reux!  Up  there!  Don't  let  it  beat  you!"  But 
the  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  Then,  beaten,  he 
drew  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and  let  the  tears 
flow. 


CHAPTER  II 

MADELEINE  was  nearing  the  Corbier  farm 
known  as  the  "Moulinettes" — the  "Little 
Mills."  She  had  never  been  there  before,  but  her 
brother  had  pointed  out  the  way  and  besides  she 
could  see  the  new  roof  of  the  farmhouse,  bright  red 
through  the  trees.  She  stopped  a  moment  to  look. 
From  a  distance  the  place  seemed  comfortable  and 
cheerful.  Nevertheless  she  was  afraid  she  might  not 
get  to  feel  at  home  there.  Until  now  she  had  been 
only  on  large  farms  where  the  work  was  hard  but 
simple  and  enjoyable.  She  was  given  her  orders 
and  did  as  she  was  told,  with  no  care  but  to  do  her 
task  well.  She  was  told  to  wash,  and  she  washed 
for  twelve  hours  at  a  stretch,  ate  her  soup  and  went 
to  bed.  In  summer  she  was  told  to  go  harvesting, 
and  she  took  her  sickle  and  followed  the  men.  It 
was  hard  work  every  day,  especially  as  she  had  to 
do  her  woman's  work  as  well,  while  the  men  took 
their  mid-day  nap. 

But  no  one  had  ever  told  her:  "Buy  and  sell: 
weigh  the  butter,  give  the  thread  to  the  weaver." 
Above  all,  no  one  had  ever  ordered  her  to  take  up 
the  baby  and  change  his  diapers;  to  comfort  him 
when  he  cried;  to  soothe  and  chide  and  cuddle  him. 

17 


i8  NENE 

She  had  never  managed  anything  or  any  one  and 
whenever  children  were  being  discussed  in  her  hear- 
ing, she  said : 

"I  don't  like  them  hanging  around  my  skirts;  they 
keep  me  from  doing  my  work." 

When  old  man  Corbier  had  come  to  hire  her,  she 
had  refused,  with  not  a  moment's  hesitation.  But  he 
had  insisted,  making  much  of  the  advantages  of  the 
position  offered:  she'd  be,  in  a  way,  the  mistress  of 
the  house,  instead  of  having  to  obey  others;  and 
she'd  be  only  a  couple  of  miles  from  her  mother's. 
Besides,  he  himself,  whose  rheumatic  legs  kept  him 
so  much  indoors,  would  help  her  in  little  ways  and 
look  after  the  children.  Finally  he  offered  her  par- 
ticularly good  wages.  So,  at  last,  she  gave  in,  really 
flattered  in  her  self-esteem  as  a  good  and  capable 
woman. 

Now  that  she  was  drawing  near  the  place,  her 
fears  returned.  Yet,  she  walked  on  briskly.  The 
little  creatures  in  the  hedges  scattered  as  she  passed ; 
the  lizards,  hunting  among  the  primroses  and  wild 
pansies,  drew  back  swiftly  and  silently.  The  tit- 
mice and  bulfmches  rose  from  their  nests  and 
skipped  to  the  upper  branches;  the  blackbirds  flew 
away  suddenly  with  a  great  rustle  of  leaves.  But 
none  of  the  birds  went  far.  She  felt  that  they  re- 
mained hidden  there  among  the  willows  and  holly 
bushes,  and  that  they  were  peering  out  at  her 
anxiously. 


NENE  19 

"What  is  this  stranger  up  to,  with  her  bundles 
and  her  noisy  heels?" 

But  as  she  went  straight  on,  they  grew  confident 
again  and  picked  up  the  thread  of  their  song. 

Madeleine  lifted  her  head  to  the  tree-tops  alive 
with  birds,  and  she  thought : 

"Birds  of  my  new  home,  I  know  you  are  welcom- 
ing me.  Thank  you,  little  dears !" 

Her  blue  eyes  lighted  up  her  sunburned  face. 

"Little  songsters  of  Paradise,  are  you  making 
music  for  my  wedding?  Amen!  But  I  am  an  old 
maid  and  I  have  no  lover.  .  .  .  What  fine  little 
fiddlers  you'd  make  and  how  gladly  everybody 
would  join  in  the  procession  behind  you !" 

A  start  interrupted  her  musings. 

"Bad  luck!" 

Before  her,  ten  steps  away,  a  squirrel  was  calmly 
crossing  the  road.  It  was  an  evil  omen.  It  took  her 
breath  away.  She  passed  on  quickly,  turning  back 
to  look  at  the  little  animal  that  skipped  away  now 
with  diabolical  agility. 

She  reasoned  with  herself.  Squirrels  were  plenti- 
ful in  this  country-side,  so  full  of  hazel  and  chest- 
nuts; they  must  be  crossing  everybody's  path.  It 
was  just  old-fashioned  superstition  to  be  afraid. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  forced  herself  to 
smile.  But  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  sparrows  fell 
silent,  hiding  away  under  the  bushes.  In  the  very 


20  N  E  N  E 

middle  of  the  road  a  strange  shadow  was  wavering. 
Madeleine  looked  up  and  saw  a  bird  of  prey 
planing  high  up  in  the  air;  and  in  the  sunlight  its 
great  russet  wings  seemed  quite  black. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  woman  who  had  come  in  by  the  day  had 
gone.  Madeleine  was  alone  in  the  house  with 
the  children.  Ten  o'clock  struck.  It  was  time  to 
think  of  getting  dinner.  She  lighted  the  fire  and 
hung  up  the  kettle. 

The  little  girl,  Lalie,  seated  in  a  corner  near 
the  table,  eyed  her  curiously. 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  Madeleine. 

"Lalie,"  answered  the  little  one. 

She  was  about  four  years  old ;  a  pretty  child,  with 
black  eyes  and  curly  locks,  but  dirty  and  dressed 
like  a  little  old  woman  in  a  tight  waist  and  a  wide 
gathered  skirt. 

"Will  you  give  me  a  kiss,  Lalie?" 

The  child  began  to  twist  her  skirt  and  looked 
down,  smiling. 

"Won't  you  give  me  a  kiss?  You  needn't  be 
afraid.  Do  you  like  sugar  almonds,  Lalie?" 

Madeleine  drew  a  small  paper  bag  out  of  her 
pocket. 

"Take  it!    It's  for  you." 

The  child  kept  on  twisting  her  skirt. 

"Take  it,  Lalie,  take  it! — Why,  dear,  here  it  is, 
just  waiting  for  you  to  take !  Come  on !" 

Lalie  burst  into  sobs. 

21 


22  N  E  N  E 

"There,  now,"  thought  Madeleine.  "Isn't  she 
shy,  though !  It  is  because  I  don't  know  what  to  say 
to  her.  What  can  I  say  to  the  poor  little  thing  ?" 

She  emptied  out  the  almonds  on  the  table  within 
reach  of  the  child  and  turned  away  puzzled. 

Then  she  went  to  the  cradle.  Drawing  back  the 
curtain,  she  saw  a  little  round  head,  two  plump 
cheeks.  This  one,  surely,  was  as  beautiful  as  an 
Infant  Jesus.  On  the  coverlet  his  little  hand  lay 
half  curled,  white  on  the  back  and  rosy  inside. 

Madeleine  bent  over  him  and  with  her  work- 
hardened  finger  touched  the  delicate  palm  that  re- 
minded her  of  a  very  fine  onion  skin.  There !  The 
tiny  hand  closed  tight.  And  he  held  on,  the  little 
fellow !  He  squeezed,  he  pulled ! — How  ever  could 
he  squeeze  as  hard  as  that"? 

Madeleine  tried  to  free  her  finger,  but  no  use! 
Well, — there  she  was,  caught;  what  was  she  to  do*? 
If  she  pulled  away  brusquely,  he  would  wake  up. 

She  waited,  schemed,  tried  to  slip  away  slyly, 
little  by  little.  Ah,  you  would,  would  you?  An 
upheaval  under  the  bed  clothes,  a  kick.  The  small 
fist  was  like  a  closed  trap.  You'll  stay  right  here ! 

Madeleine  dared  not  stir.  She  waited  awhile, 
feeling  very  foolish.  Her  cheeks  burned,  her  legs 
shook.  If  anybody  should  come,  he'd  ask  her  what 
she  was  doing  there,  leaning  over  the  cradle.  Time 
passed;  was  she  going  to  make  the  men  wait  for 
their  dinner,  the  very  first  day? 


N  E  N  E  23 

No!  .  .  .  The  baby  waked  up  and  immediately 
began  to  cry.  She  picked  him  up  quickly. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  minute,  ran  his  hands 
over  her  unfamiliar  face,  and  then,  reassured,  began 
to  babble  and  play.  He  pinched  Madeleine's  nose, 
jabbed  at  her  eyes,  pulled  her  hair.  He  arched  his 
little  body,  threw  himself  forward,  and  plump! — 
bumped  his  head  against  her,  with  his  baby  mouth 
agape. 

Eleven  o'clock !    It  couldn't  be  so  late ! 

Quickly  Madeleine  sat  the  baby  on  a  folded  blan- 
ket on  the  floor  and  ran  to  her  work. 

When  Corbier  came  in  with  the  farm  hands,  an 
hour  later,  he  found  the  two  children  in  a  happy 
mood  and  the  table  nicely  set. 

Madeleine,  who  was  kneeling  beside  Jo,  rose  to 
her  feet  and  stood  up  straight  before  the  farmer,  a 
little  flushed,  and  astonished  to  find  him  so  young. 

He  spoke  a  few  words  of  welcome  to  her  and  sat 
down  at  the  table.  He  thought  her  plain,  but 
straightforward  and  gentle. 

"Maybe,"  he  thought,  "this  one  will  lend  her 
arms  to  my  house  and  her  heart  to  my  children." 

The  mere  thought  of  it  comforted  him ;  and,  help- 
ing himself  to  a  plateful  of  soup,  he  ate  it  with  great 
relish. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THEY   were   of   the   same   race,    these   two: 
Michael  Corbier  and  Madeleine  Clarandeau: 
an  odd  race,  living  in  a  little  known  corner  of 
France. 

At  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  when  the  King 
was  guillotined,  all  the  people  hereabout — the 
Corbiers,  the  Clarandeaus,  the  Fantous  and  the 
others, — no  longer  all  in  the  same  politico-religious 
camp  now — followed  the  lead  of  their  beloved 
priests  and  rose  for  the  King,  in  their  ignorance  and 
loyalty. 

Though  victorious  in  their  first  forward  thrust, 
they  soon  came  to  grips  with  men  of  their  own 
mettle.  On  both  sides,  under  the  leadership  of 
gentle-eyed  youths  or  stern-souled  veterans,  the 
struggle  had  been  desperate. 

To  the  Royalists'  battle-cry  or  the  strains  of  the 
Marseillaise,  every  town  and  village  had  been 
taken,  re-taken,  sacked  and  burned.  There  had  been 
fighting  in  every  sunken  lane,  in  every  patch  of 
broom,  in  every  clearing.  There  was  not  a  parish 
even  now,  after  more  than  a  century,  that  did  not 
have  its  "battle  mound,"  its  "grave  of  the  Blue 
Coats"  or  its  "Calvary  of  the  Chouans." 

24 


N  E  N  E  25 

In  the  end  the  peasants  had  been  crushed.  Other 
governments  had  come  and  conciliated  the  priests, 
pacified  them  so  far  that  many  of  them  had  accepted 
the  new  state  of  affairs  and  taken  oath  of  allegiance 
to  the  Republic. 

Only  the  most  bitter,  the  least  politic  among  them 
had  kept  on  the  war  in  their  hearts,  and  their  flocks 
had  followed  them  into  their  fierce  isolation,  into 
their  disdainful  disregard  of  threats  and  excommu- 
nications. But  little  by  little  these  priests  had  died 
off  and  their  flocks  had  been  dispersed. 

Now,  after  120  years,  there  were  few  of  these 
rebels,  these  Dissenters,  left,  except  in  the  lowlands 
of  the  Vendee,  where  they  had  gathered  in  tiny  com- 
munities— buffeted,  crumbling  away,  but  still  not 
submerged  by  the  flood  tide  of  Catholicism. 

Saint-Ambroise  was  the  most  important,  compact 
and  sturdy  of  these.  It  boasted  1,500  Dissenters. 
They  had  held  their  own,  because  they  were  a  crowd 
living  close  together,  and  because  they  had  the  back- 
ing of  the  Protestants. 

There  was  another  hardy  and  vigorous  sect,  these 
Protestants.  They  had  come  from  the  country 
around  Fontenay,  where  their  ancestors  had  been 
among  the  first  to  accept  Calvin's  message.  In  those 
far-off  days  they  had  been  numerous;  sometimes  a 
band  of  ruffians,  and  then  again  a  meek  and  humble 
flock. 

They  had  been  ill  treated  under  the  kings,  and 


26  N  E  N  E 

the  Vendean  Royalists  had  harried  them  too.  They 
had  hidden,  scattered;  yet  here  they  were  again, 
now  hardly  more  than  a  thousand  strong,  settled 
partly  at  Saint-Ambroise,  partly  at  Chantepie  and 
Chateau-Blanc. 

Now  that  they  were  no  longer  persecuted,  they 
took  to  bickering  among  themselves.  Eager  for 
knowledge,  they  discussed  the  latest  ideas  and  their 
own  beliefs;  following  and  outstripping  their  most 
advanced  pastors,  many  of  them  drifted  gradually 
toward  irreligion.  Some  of  them,  however,  from 
time  to  time,  impelled  by  a  wave  of  mysticism, 
reached  toward  primitive  narrowness,  toward 
anathemas,  mortification  of  the  flesh  and  the  min- 
atory texts  of  the  Bible. 

It  was  a  strange  countryside,  with  its  two  rival 
Protestant  churches  and  its  Dissenters'  chapel, 
hemmed  in  by  the  arrogant  chimes  of  the  Catholic 
churches.  All  kinds  of  ancient  traditions  clashed 
here,  and,  although  the  years  had  mellowed  many 
hard  feelings,  at  times  hate  shot  forth  again  into 
flame.  The  manner  of  speech  varied  from  one 
household  to  another,  as  did  the  manner  of  dress, 
of  food  and  of  household  arrangements,  the  games, 
the  songs  and  amusements  of  the  young.  The  Dis- 
senters excited  the  liveliest  curiosity;  but  they  felt 
their  souls  were  apart  from  the  others,  and,  being 
afraid  they  might  be  laughed  at,  they  kept  much 
to  themselves. 


N  E  N  E  27 

One  time  some  gentlemen  had  come  from  town, 
— perhaps  from  Paris  itself — who  had  cleverly  over- 
come their  reticence.  Soon  after,  they  had  been 
written  up  in  a  newspaper.  Their  chapel  was  de- 
scribed as  a  big  barn  of  a  building,  full  of  tin  Saints 
and  plaster  Virgins.  The  writer  had  spoken  not 
unpleasantly,  but  without  due  reverence,  of  their 
holy-water  basin  and  their  "museum," — two  things 
the  Dissenters  held  very  dear.  Their  holy-water 
basin  was  like  all  those  that  one  sees  in  the  Catholic 
churches,  but  with  this  difference,  that  it  was  never 
emptied.  The  water  had  been  blessed  by  their  last 
priest  and  that  had  been  a  long  time  ago.  Since 
then,  every  day,  a  few  drops  of  plain  water  were 
added,  so  that  it  should  remain  at  the  same  level. 

As  for  their  "museum,"  it  was  a  collection  of  little 
white  animals,  carved  out  of  meat  bones  with  a 
pocket  knife  by  an  old  peasant  who  was  famed  for 
his  piety.  Granted,  they  were  not  as  beautiful  as 
the  great  statues  they  had  in  the  city  churches;  still, 
they  had  "nothing  like  them  in  the  churches  of  Saint 
Ambroise  or  Chantepie;  and  the  very  people  who 
made  fun  of  them  would  have  been  incapable  of 
fashioning  anything  like  them.  Anyway,  when  you 
are  invited  into  a  house  and  made  welcome  there, 
you  don't  say,  on  leaving,  that  the  fire  smoked  and 
the  seats  are  rickety. 

After  this  experience  the  chapel  was  closed  to 
strangers.  The  Dissenters  bent  all  their  energies 


28  N  E  N  E 

against  being  swamped  by  the  Catholics.  The  last 
of  their  priests  had  gone  and  they  scorned  new 
priests  as  they  would  scorn  traitors;  so  they  con- 
ducted their  services  themselves.  Perhaps  from 
pride,  or  from  a  dim  fear  of  erring  on  the  wrong  side, 
they  accentuated  their  piety,  kept  all  the  Saints' 
days,  doubled  their  days  of  fasting,  observed  Lent 
inexorably.  And  thus,  forgotten  heresies,  and  even 
ancient  superstitions  from  the  buried  past,  flourished 
on  this  rigid  Christian  faith  as  wall-flowers  and  St. 
John's  wart  sprout  from  the  sides  of  an  old  wall. 
The  women  conducted  the  prayers,  the  young  girls 
teaching  the  catechising.  Faith  in  the  healing  power 
of  mistletoe  was  revived  and  trees  and  springs  were 
revered  again. 

The  Dissenters  rarely  married  outside  their  own 
group.  They  did  not  care  to  win  over  a  Catholic 
by  marriage,  as  such  mixed  marriages  would  only 
produce  religious  bastards,  ready  to  betray  them. 
But  when  one  of  themselves  was  baptised  in  the 
Catholic  church,  they  mourned  for  him  in  their 
hearts. 

It  rarely  happened  that  a  girl  thus  renounced  her 
faith,  but  there  were  always  a  number  of  lovestruck 
young  men  who  allowed  themselves  to  slip  into  the 
Catholic  tide  which  never  gave  them  up  again. 
There  had  been  such  conversions  in  the  Corbier 
family — a  proud  and  rugged  clan,  in  truth,  but 
easily  ruled  by  their  passions.  In  the  Clarandeau 


NENE  29 

family,  such  a  thing  had  never  yet  happened,  but 
there  was  danger  of  it  now.  The  son,  the  big  chap 
who  from  childhood  had  been  nicknamed  Trooper 
because  of  his  size  and  strength,  was  madly  in  love 
with  a  young  dressmaker  of  Chantepie,  one  of  the 
standard  bearers  of  the  "Children  of  Mary."  True, 
he  had  promised  his  mother  and  Madeleine  never  to 
"change  himself,"  but  still  they  were  not  easy  in 
their  minds,  knowing  men  to  be  weak  and  easily 
swayed. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  the  season  when  the  days  are  longest.  The 
men  rushed  from  one  task  to  another:  the  beets 
had  to  be  planted,  the  hay  taken  in,  the  fields  pre- 
pared for  the  winter  cabbage.  They  would  never 
be  done  with  all  this  in  time  for  the  harvest.  The 
oat  fields  were  ripening  fast,  too  fast,-r-fairly 
roasted  by  a  hot  week  in  June. 

For  the  women,  it  was  the  season  for  looking 
after  the  young  poultry  with  particular  vigilance; 
the  critical  period  when  the  year's  first  broods  of 
chicks  and  goslings  were  making  up  their  minds 
whether  to  drop  out  or  grow  up.  Things  must  be 
made  ready,  too,  for  the  late  broods,  and  the  little 
pigs  born  in  the  spring  had  to  be  weaned — all  of 
which  demanded  care  and  attention.  Especially  for 
the  cooks  was  this  a  dreaded  time,  preparing  four 
meals  a  day,  four  copious  meals  on  account  of  the 
hard  out-door  work,  with  nothing  but  a  few  vege- 
tables and  a  little  salt  pork. 

Madeleine  got  up  early.  On  the  stroke  of  three 
her  wooden  shoes  began  to  clatter  about  on  the  brick 
floor  of  the  kitchen:  click-clack!  Time  to  get  up! 
Quickly  she  lighted  the  fire,  picked  the  vegetables, 
hurried  to  the  pork  barrel.  Four  o'clock:  prayers, 

30 


NENE  31 

which  Madeleine  conducted,  with  old  man  Corbier 
giving  the  responses  and  the  others  listening,  even 
the  farm  hands,  one  of  whom  was  a  Catholic  and  the 
other  a  Protestant. 

Half-past  four:  the  table  has  to  be  set,  the  cows 
milked,  the  cream  separated,  the  dishes  washed — 
the  chicks,  the  ducklings,  the  babies — a  thousand 
things ! 

By  nine  o'clock  at  night  she  was  done,  sometimes 
not  till  ten,  when  the  men  were  fast  asleep. 

She  knew  everything  that  ought  to  be  done  in  a 
house  for  the  comfort  of  man  and  beast,  but  she 
lacked  the  experience  for  proper  co-ordination. 

Nor  was  she  particularly  quick  and  clever  about 
doing  things.  For  instance,  she  didn't  know  how  to 
make  the  goslings  eat  from  her  hand,  coax  them  to 
swallow  their  feed  prepared  of  bran  and  chopped 
nettles.  When  showers  threatened  she  ran  to  the 
threshing  floor  to  call  in  her  chickens,  waving  her 
handkerchief  in  one  hand  and  her  apron  in  the  other : 

"Come  in  out  of  the  rain,  little  chicks!" 

But  she  went  after  them  too  directly  and  too  fast. 
The  chicks  gave  frightened  peeps  and  scattered 
around  the  haystacks;  the  mother  hens  puffed  out 
their  feathers  angrily.  Madeleine  grew  angry,  too, 
and  then  the  rain  was  on  them. 

Just  then  Lalie  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Jo  is  crying!"    Madeleine  wouldn't  listen. 

"Jo  is  crying,  so  there !    Lalie  didn't  hit  him !" 


32  NENE 

Madeleine  thought: 
"You  just  wait!"    And  she  said: 
"Let  him  cry,  it's  good  for  his  voice." 
The  little  girl  went  back  into  the  house,  but  in  a 
minute  she  reappeared. 

"Jo  is  crying,  there's  a  pin  sticking  in  his  tummy." 
Madeleine  came  back  quickly,   abandoning  her 
chickens.     She  knew  well  enough  that  Jo  had  no 
pin  sticking  in  his  tummy,  but  this  familiar  com- 
plaint always  quite  upset  her. 

One  evening,  while  hurriedly  changing  the  baby, 
she  had  pricked  him  with  her  clumsy  fingers.  Not 
seriously,  but  enough  to  draw  the  smallest  bead  of 
blood.  The  child  had  uttered  a  quick  cry,  quite 
different  from  his  cries  of  temper,  and  Madeleine 
had  started,  gasping- — truly  shaken  to  the  depths 
of  her  being.  For  nearly  an  hour  she  had  rocked 
the  little  fellow  in  her  arms.  Gladly  would  she 
have  inflicted  some  torture  on  herself,  in  expiation. 
When  night  came,  she  had  taken  the  baby  with  her 
to  the  bed  she  shared  with  Lalie,  and  held  him  close, 
close. 

"Jo  has  a  pin  sticking  in  his  tummy !"  Ten  times 
a  day,  since  then,  Lalie  made  cold  shivers  run  down 
her  back. 

Already  she  had  begun  to  love  the  children. 
They  occupied  her  thoughts  more  than  anything  else. 
They  made  more  work  for  her,  too.  Lalie  poked  her 
little  fingers  into  everything,  and  Jo  wanted  to  fol* 


N  E  N  E  33 

low  her  example.  He  was  beginning  to  walk  and 
took  a  tumble  every  few  minutes.  Being  quick  tem- 
pered, he  yelled  and  stamped  his  foot  all  day  long. 

Madeleine  ventured  to  think:  "If  I  were  their 
mother,  I  would  hire  a  girl  who'd  take  some  of  the 
outside  work  off  my  hands,  and  I'd  give  more  care 
to  the  children.  As  it  is,  I  never  have  time  for 
them.  They  are  the  losers;  they  play  without  me, 
and  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  make  them  love  me, 
even  if  they've  made  me  love  them." 

Old  man  Corbier,  who  was  to  have  helped  her  so 
much  about  the  house,  just  now  was  made  young 
again  by  the  sunny  weather  and  was  never  indoors. 
So  she  was  kept  very  busy  and  always  seemed  to  be 
in  a  hurry. 

"Our  hired  girl,"  said  the  old  man,  "doesn't  keep 
her  two  feet  in  the  same  shoe." 

Indeed  not;  and  it  was  a  good  thing  she  didn't. 

When  she  had  come  to  the  Moulinettes,  she  had 
asked  herself  anxiously  if  she  ever  would  get  used 
to  things  there.  Two  months  had  gone  by  and  she 
had  never  since  had  the  time  to  ask  herself  this 
question  again. 

At  the  other  farms  where  she  had  been  hired,  she 
often  thought,  while  working,  of  her  mother,  her 
sisters,  or  of  her  home  village,  or  of  her  old  friends, 
or  of  the  things  one  or  other  young  man  had  said 
to  her.  Now,  she  was  always  worrying  about  the 
animals  or  the  household,  and  her  thoughts  no 


34  N  E  N  E 

longer  strayed  afield  and  lost  themselves  in  the  dis- 
tance, like  wisps  of  smoke.  She  had  hardly  seen 
anything  of  the  farm  beyond  her  own  workaday 
domain.  She  who  had  been  so  glad  in  advance  that 
there  was  such  a  fine  pond  at  the  Moulinettes,  with 
great  pines  and  oaks  all  round  it,  had  never  taken 
time  to  go  near  it.  She  had  merely  said  to  herself: 

"If  only  the  children  don't  take  to  going  down 
there!" 

As  for  the  house,  she  had  grown  familiar  with 
every  nook  and  corner  of  it.  She  liked  it  because 
it  was  comfortable,  and  because  all  the  appoint- 
ments were  to  her  taste.  There  were  two  large 
rooms,  divided  by  a  corridor,  with  a  place  for  keep- 
ing the  wine  and  a  dairy  at  the  rear.  All  the  floors 
were  neatly  bricked  in  the  old-fashioned  way. 

One  of  the  rooms  was  furnished  with  two  prettily 
speckled  ash-wood  wardrobes  and  two  tall  and  beau- 
tiful four-post  beds,  in  which  Michael  Corbier  and 
his  father  slept.  The  other  room,  the  one  they 
liked  to  show  off  to  their  visitors,  held  a  mixture 
of  furniture.  Side  by  side  with  an  old  brown  side- 
board, a  big  brown  chest  and  a  grandfather's  clock 
in  a  black  case,  there  were  a  modern  bed  and  a 
clothes  press  of  bright,  beautifully  finished  cherry- 
wood.  This  bed  and  the  clothes  press  had  been 
bought  by  the  young  couple.  They  took  on  an  air 
of  extreme  youthfulness  in  this  old  house,  but  as 


N  E  N  E  35 

they  were  good  pieces  of  furniture,  simply  and  care- 
fully fashioned,  their  newness  was  attractive  rather 
than  disturbing. 

To  Madeleine  the  old  chimney  place  was  the 
most  interesting  thing  of  all  at  the  Corbiers'.  She 
wasn't  surprised  at  the  images  of  Saints  nor  at  the 
rosary  of  enormous  boxwood  beads,  which  undoubt- 
edly had  never  been  used  for  prayers:  these  were 
common  enough  in  the  Dissenters'  homes.  But  no- 
where had  she  seen  firearms  like  these,  nor  such  a 
queer  old  document  so  nicely  framed. 

The  weapons  were  two  long  pistols.  A  hundred 
and  twenty  years  ago,  the  youngest  chief  of  the 
Catholic  Army  had  given  them  as  a  token  of  friend- 
ship to  one  of  the  Corbiers,  who  had  been  his 
closest  companion. 

The  framed  document  was  a  piece  of  parchment, 
on  which  had  been  inscribed  an  event  of  the  war :  an 
adventurous  scion  of  the  Corbier  family  had  forced 
an  entrance  into  a  vigorously  defended  town,  along 
with  his  Commander.  At  the  bottom,  a  fat  signa- 
ture— that  of  the  Commander.  To  the  left,  the 
writer,  who  must  have  been  an  expert  with  his  pen, 
had  drawn  the  picture  of  a  towering  wall,  with  two 
ladders  against  it,  at  the  top  of  which  stood  two 
men  with  drawn  swords. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  picture  was  slightly  blurred, 
but  the  Corbiers  could  explain  all  the  details 


36  N  E  N  E 

minutely  when  asked  about  them;  they  took  great 
pride  in  it. 

The  old  man  had  told  Madeleine  on  her  first 
day  at  the  farm  not  to  touch  the  pistols  nor  the 
framed  document.  This  prohibition  had  vexed  her, 
for  she  considered  herself  a  careful  and  capable 
housewife. 

Sometimes,  of  an  evening,  when  the  men  were  in 
bed,  she  was  tempted  to  take  down  and  burnish 
those  old  pieces.  With  the  turn  of  her  hand  she 
could  have  made  them  as  bright  and  shiny  as  the 
candlesticks  and  the  snuffers.  She  never  dared, 
though,  held  back  from  touching  these  ancient  things 
by  a  vague  dread  of  committing  a  sin. 

When  she  was  thus  alone,  with  no  one  around  to 
bother  her,  she  worked  quickly  and  noiselessly. 
Feeling  free  to  move  about  as  she  chose,  she  was  at 
her  best.  She  put  things  to  rights  and  made  every- 
thing ready  for  the  next  day's  work.  Every  other 
day  she  took  her  dust  cloths  and  polished  the  furni- 
ture. It  was  her  pride  to  thus  uphold  her  reputation 
as  an  exceptionally  able  servant. 

When  she  had  finished,  she  drew  up  the  baby's 
cradle  close  to  her  bed  and  slipped  in  gently  beside 
little  Lalie.  The  first  few  nights  she  had  not  slept 
well.  Lalie  cuddled  up  close,  with  her  head  against 
Madeleine's  neck,  like  a  forlorn  little  chick.  Accus- 
tomed to  sleeping  alone,  Madeleine  had  not  rested 
well  with  the  tickling,  disturbing  little  breath  right 


NENE  37 

on  her.  But  now  she  was  used  to  it.  When  the 
child  slipped  down,  Madeleine  never  failed  to  waken 
enough  to  raise  the  little  head  and  cuddle  it  against 
her  breast. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  this  July  Sunday,  Michael  Corbier  was  at 
St.^Ambroise  and  Madeleine  was  in  charge  of 
the  house.    She  was  saying  prayers  alone  with  the 
children. 

Boiseriot,  the  Catholic  farm-hand,  came  in.  This 
was  also  his  Sunday  on  duty.  He  sat  down  at  the 
table  and  called  out: 

"Where's  the  soup?" 

Madeleine  paid  no  attention,  for  this  was  the  hour 
of  prayer. 

"The  soup !    The  soup !" 

He  began  to  bang  on  the  table  with  the  handle 
of  his  knife.  Before  his  employers  he  would  never 
have  dared  to  show  his  impatience  at  such  a  time. 
Madeleine  got  up,  still  holding  her  rosary,  and 
silently  placed  the  tureen  before  him;  then,  as  he 
looked  at  her  with  a  leering  smile,  she  turned  her 
back  on  him. 

She  disliked  this  man.  He  was  a  bachelor  around 
thirty-five,  of  small  build  and  ordinary  appearance. 
He  was  a  good  farm-hand,  though,  stronger  than  he 
looked,  but  not  much  of  a  talker,  rather  sly  and 
underhanded.  Madeleine  distrusted  him,  not  be- 
cause he  was  a  Catholic,  but  because  he  looked  at 
her  with  wicked,  glittering  eyes. 

38 


N  E  N  E  39 

At  twenty-seven,  after  fourteen  years  of  farm 
labour,  she  had  often  enough,  run  against  the  in- 
herent roughness  of  the  male.  She  had  always 
known  how  to  defend  herself  laughingly.  A  little 
teasing  didn't  frighten  her  and,  when  necessary,  she 
knew  how  to  use  her  fists.  But  she  did  not  know 
how  to  deal  with  these  silent  fellows  with  the  bold 
eyes. 

When  Boiseriot  had  finished  eating,  he  remained 
sitting  at  his  place,  watching  her  move  about.  She 
felt  relieved  when  at  last  he  went  away. 

That  evening,  when  the  baby  was  asleep,  she  went 
out  into  the  front  yard;  and  then  she  remembered 
that  the  men's  beds  had  not  been  made.  The  farm- 
hands slept  in  a  lean-to  at  the  end  of  the  grange, 
and  there  is  where  she  went  now.  As  she  was  pass- 
ing through  the  stables  she  saw  Boiseriot  stretched 
out  there  on  a  bunch  of  fresh  straw.  Seeing  her 
come,  he  sat  up  and  caught  her  by  the  leg.  She 
pulled  away  and  passed  on,  when  suddenly  he 
jumped  up  and  threw  himself  at  her  like  a  lecherous 
beast.  She  reached  out  and  gave  him  a  blow  that 
stunned  him;  but  not  enough  to  stop  him,  so  she 
faced  him  squarely  and  gave  him  another  blow. 

"You  dirty  beast !    Wait  till  I  tell  the  master !" 

"You — pockfaced  fiend!"  he  growled.  "You 
aren't  so  touchy  with  other  people !" 

"Boiseriot,  I  don't  hear  you  right !" 

"Well,  I  can  see  right  enough!    You'll  tell  the 


40  N  E  N  E 

master,  eh?  I  wouldn't  be  surprised!  I'll  get  the 
boot,  that's  a  sure  thing.  You're  already  the  boss 
in  this  house,  but  I'll  go  and  tell  everybody  what  I 
know." 

"What  will  you  tell,  Boiseriot?' 

"I'll  tell  them !  And  I'll  sic  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood on  you!  And  we'll  come  and  raise  the  devil 
at  your  door  while  .  .  ." 

Madeleine  bent  over,  listening  to  his  shameless 
talk.  Indignation  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"Oh,  you  devil !    Take  that !" 

Madeleine  struck  out  with  closed  fists,  like  a  man. 

"Take  that,  you  dog! — and  that,  you  snake! — 
Ah!  I've  got  you  groggy! — You  poor  runt,  I'd 
grind  you  under  my  heel  if  it  weren't  for  Christian 
mercy !" 

To  keep  from  striking  him  any  more,  Madeleine 
ran  off  to  the  men's  quarters,  where  she  relieved  her 
nerves  by  shaking  the  feather  mattresses. 

Behind  her,  Boiseriot  picked  himself  up  and 
brushed  off  his  soiled  clothes.  With  an  evil  gleam 
in  his  eye,  he  threatened : 

"You  pockmarked  devil !  I'll  sic  the  neighbours 
on  you !" 


CHAPTER  VII 

THAT  same  evening,  little  Jo  was  taken  with 
colic. 

Every  one  was  asleep  except  Madeleine,  when  the 
child  began  to  toss  about  and  moan.  Madeleine 
rocked  the  cradle;  still  half  asleep,  she  began  hum- 
ming a  lullaby  in  cadence  with  the  ticking  of  the 
clock.  But  the  child  cried  out  sharply  and  flung 
himself  about.  Madeleine  jumped  out  of  bed, 
slipped  on  her  petticoat  and  lighted  a  candle. 

The  baby's  cries  grew  worse  from  minute  to 
minute,  and  yet  there  was  nothing  that  could  have 
injured  him.  He  must  be  sick,  taken  with  some  bad 
illness  perhaps,  since  it  had  come  on  so  suddenly. 
She  began  to  walk  the  floor,  rocking  him  in  her  arms, 
but  as  he  would  not  quiet  down,  she  opened  the 
hall  door  and  called  out : 

"Corbier!  Corbier!  The  baby  is  sick!  I  don't 
know  what's  the  trouble.  I  am  worried!" 

He  came  out  at  once,  he  too  in  his  night  shirt 
and  bare-footed,  having  only  just  stopped  to  put  on 
his  trousers.  Madeleine  held  the  child  up  a  little 
in  her  arms,  and  both  of  them  looked  anxiously  at 
the  small  bit  of  humanity  in  pain. 

"We  ought  to  have  a  fire,"  said  Madeleine. 

41 


42  N  E  N  E 

"I'll  go,"  said  Corbier. 

He  went  out  and  returned  with  some  wood  and 
kindling.  He  was  so  upset  that  he  blew  into  the 
ashes.  She  had  to  kneel  down  beside  him  to  help 
him  start  the  fire.  At  last  it  flamed  up.  Madeleine 
sat  down  and  held  the  baby  out  toward  the  warmth. 

"If  we  could  give  him  some  tisane "  she  said. 

So  he  set  about  preparing  an  infusion  of  marsh- 
mallow  flowers.  Madeleine  gave  it  to  the  child, 
who,  strangely,  had  just  stopped  crying.  Appar- 
ently all  right  again,  he  kicked  his  little  legs  toward 
the  fire.  Cheeks  still  wet  with  tears,  he  laughed 
aloud  while  his  father  waved  a  burning  twig  which 
made  a  pretty,  luminous  ribbon  in  the  air  before  his 
baby  eyes. 

How  foolish  they  had  been  to  work  themselves 
up  so!  They  looked  at  each  other,  sharing  the  ten- 
derness they  both  felt  for  the  baby. 

Suddenly  Madeleine  blushed  red  hot.  In  her 
excitement  she  had  hardly  covered  her  body.  Her 
unbuttoned  underwaist  left  her  throat  uncovered 
and  her  chemise  gaped  over  her  great  white  bosom. 

Boiseriot's  evil  words  rang  in  her  ears: 

"You  aren't  so  touchy  with  other  people !" 

Thanking  Corbier,  she  rose  quickly  and  put  the 
baby  back  in  his  cradle. 

The  baby  had  fallen  asleep  again.  Corbier  had 
gone  back  to  bed,  and  Madeleine  sat  up  thinking, — 
ashamed  of  having  been  so  careless,  and  quite  upset 


N  E  N  E  43 

by  notions  that  had  never  troubled  her  before.  She 
was  not  in  love  with  Corbier.  She  could  not  have 
fallen  in  love  with  him  so  quickly!  Like  all  girls 
of  her  age,  she  had  had  suitors.  She  had  rejected 
several  proposals;  at  other  times,  it  was  she  who  had 
been  jilted.  She  had  been  a  little  annoyed  over 
those  incidents,  but  had  got  over  them  easily  enough. 
No,  she  was  not  a  girl  to  lose  her  head  all  of  a  sud- 
den, just  like  that. 

She  was  not  hi  love  with  Corbier;  she  loved  the 
children,  and  her  love  for  them  was  sweet  and  held 
no  danger.  No  doubt,  he  was  a  good-looking  man, 
this  young  master, — and  later,  if  he  begged  for  her 
love  honestly — one  had  heard  of  stranger  happen- 
ings— would  she  say  Yes  or  No*? 

To  the  muffled  ticking  of  the  grandfather's  clock, 
the  night  sped  away,  and  Madeleine  lay  there  with 
a  fever  in  her  veins  and  her  eyes  wide  open,  staring 
into  the  darkness  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OLD  man  Corbier  had  time  and  again  warned 
Gideon,  the  younger  of  the  two  farm-hands: 

"Don't  tease  Giant;  he's  bad  tempered  and  you'll 
end  by  making  him  kick  over  the  traces." 

Usually,  when  this  subject  came  up  at  table,  a 
long  discussion  followed,  with  apologies  and  ex- 
planations. 

Giant  was  a  descendant  of  a  cow  named  Mar- 
jolee  that  the  old  man  had  bought  twenty  years  be- 
fore at  a  Twelfth  Night  Fair,  during  one  of  those 
very  severe  winters  that  we  don't  get  any  more. 
This  Marjolee  came  from  Nantes  and  was  beautiful 
above,  superb  below,  well  built,  and  a  great  pro- 
ducer of  butter.  Try  to  find  cows  like  her  nowa- 
days !  There  had  been  Griselle  out  of  her,  Fariniere 
out  of  Griselle,  and  out  of  Fariniere  there  were 
Pomponne  and  Giant,  the  gray  bull  with  the  black 
collar. 

A  powerful  strain,  unequalled  for  labour  and 
fairly  quick  to  fatten.  Unfortunately  they  were  too 
frisky.  The  cows  were  domineering  with  their  stable 
companions.  They  broke  down  the  hedges,  jumped 
over  the  fences.  As  for  the  bulls,  they  had  to  be 
broken  in  very  young,  otherwise  they  were  likely 

44 


N  E  N  E  45 

to  become  dangerous.  The  breaking  in  of  Giant  had 
been  delayed  too  long,  because  he  was  so  handsome. 

"Giant  will  tickle  your  ribs,"  said  the  old  man. 
The  two  farm-hands  and  the  young  master  shrugged 
their  shoulders,  used  as  they  were  to  living  with 
cattle. 

Gideon  never  came  near  the  bull  without  teasing 
him.  The  bull  responded,  clanking  his  chain,  lower- 
ing his  head  with  a  long,  threatening  bellow  which 
rumbled  in  his  giant  throat.  Gideon  mocked  him : 

"Moo-oo,  Boo-oo.  .  .  .  Come  on,  Giant." 

Sometimes  he  grasped  the  bull  by  the  horns  and 
the  bull,  entering  into  the  game,  pushed  hard. 

Little  by  little  things  grew  bad,  but  the  boy  did 
not  leave  off,  for  whenever  he  was  alone  he  took  a 
keen  pleasure  in  trying  his  young  strength  to  the 
point  of  danger.  He  really  fought  with  the  beast, 
kicking  it  with  his  wooden  shoes,  and  evading  the 
still  uncertain  thrust  of  the  horns. 

One  day,  at  last,  things  became  ugly.  Giant 
started  the  fray  and  went  into  it  with  all  his  might. 
The  young  man  had  only  just  time  to  jump  out  of 
the  stall,  dropping  his  armful  of  fodder. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  asked  Michael  Corbier, 
coming  on  the  scene. 

"It's  Giant,  sir.  If  I  hadn't  got  out,  he  would 
have  butted  me  into  the  rack." 

Michael  took  it  badly. 

"If  you'd  only  leave  him  alone!    Why  tease  the 


46  N  E  N  E 

animals  and  spoil  their  tempers,  especially  when  you 
are  a  coward  yourself?" 

The  lad  straightened. 

"A  coward*?  No  more  of  a  coward  than  the  next 
one,  I'll  have  you  know !  Animals  are  just  animals, 
and  I  don't  want  to  be  trampled  on." 

"Very  well  then.  Get  out !  I'll  give  him  his  feed 
myself." 

"Look  out  for  him,  I  warn  you." 

Corbier  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  to  get 
an  armful  of  feed.  The  bull  had  never  been  un- 
friendly with  him. 

"Turn  around,  Giant." 

He  threw  his  armful  and  found  that  some  of  the 
hay  had  fallen  under  the  animal's  hoofs. 

"You  rascal,  wasting  the  feed  I  give  you !" 

He  stooped  down,  picked  up  a  few  large  fistfuls 
and  was  straightening  up  again,  when  the  bull  went 
at  him  with  his  head.  He  rolled  over  on  the  floor, 
tried  to  shout,  but  could  not  find  his  voice.  He  suc- 
ceeded, however,  in  partly  raising  himself  and  slip- 
ping into  the  manger.  Fortunately  Gideon  had  not 
gone  far.  With  a  bravery  and  promptness  one 
would  not  have  expected  of  him,  he  jumped  at  the 
bull's  head. 

"Help!    Boiseriot,  help!" 

The  bull  hurled  himself  at  the  crossbar,  a  solid 
oak  beam,  snorting  and  growling  and  wild-eyed. 
Boiseriot  came  running  from  the  grange  with  a  heavy 


NENE  47 

iron  bar.  Madeleine  came  running,  too;  at  the  first 
cry  she  had  jumped  up  from  her  milking  stool,  over- 
turning the  stool  and  spilling  her  pail  of  new  milk. 
She  attacked  the  bull  from  behind,  trying  to  tie  his 
hind  legs  and  throw  him.  He  gave  her  a  kick  and 
she  rolled  over  on  the  straw. 

Boiseriot  struck  with  his  iron  bar,  but  in  vain, 
hindered  by  Gideon,  who  was  hanging  on  to  the 
horn  and  the  muzzle.  Corbier  at  last  managed  to 
shout : 

"A  rope!" 

Madeleine  had  already  thought  of  that.  She  ran 
to  the  grange  and  came  back  with  a  leather  strap. 
The  bull  was  gathering  himself  up  for  a  final  effort. 
Seeing  him  draw  his  hind  legs  together,  she  quickly 
fastened  the  strap  around  them  and  threw  herself 
backward. 

"Boiseriot!" 

The  man  turned  to  her. 

"Get  to  his  side,"  she  said.  "I  am  going  to  throw 
him." 

A  brief  gleam  flickered  in  his  evil  eyes.  She  was 
struck  by  it. 

"Hurry  up !"  she  cried  in  a  colorless  voice. 

He  put  his  shoulder  against  the  bull's  flank  and, 
Madeleine  pulling  sharply,  the  bull  fell. 

Corbier  scrambled  out  by  way  of  the  rack.  He 
wasn't  much  hurt,  and  he  forced  himself  to  laugh, 
though  still  pale  and  breathless.  The  farm-hands 


48  N  E  N  E 

were  laughing  too.  Gideon  wiped  his  right  hand, 
which  was  bloody  from  the  bull's  nostrils.  Boiseriot 
looked  at  Madeleine,  who  was  trembling  so  hard 
now  that  she  had  to  lean  against  the  wall  for  sup- 
port. Michael  said,  when  it  was  all  over : 

"Thank  you,  all  of  you.  I  can't  talk.  I'm  going 
to  get  a  drop  of  brandy." 

He  left  the  stable  and  Madeleine  followed  him. 
After  a  bit  she  came  back. 

"Well,"  said  Gideon,  "all  right  now?' 

"Yes,  he's  better  since  he  had  a  drink.  But  I — 
I  can't  seem  to  pull  myself  together." 

She  picked  up  her  milking  stool  and  resumed  her 
work.  Boiseriot,  who  was  bringing  in  an  armful  of 
feed,  kept  his  eye  on  her.  Noticing  that  in  her 
agitation  she  was  trying  absent-mindedly  to  milk  a 
cow  she  had  already  milked,  he  sneered  as  he  brushed 
past  her : 

"You  were  afraid  for  him,  weren't  you?  .  .  * 
Devil  take  you,  I'll  sic  the  boys  on  you  yet!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHO  said  that?"  asked  Trooper  of  his  mother. 
Madame  Clarandeau  replied : 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  only  know  that  people  are 
talking  about  it  and  it  worries  me." 

"Who  told  you  that  people  are  talking  about  it?" 

The  old  woman  grew  nervous. 

"Never  mind  about  that,  boy.  I  can  attend  to 
such  things  better  than  you;  there  must  be  no  fuss 
over  this." 

She  knew  her  son.  Gentle  and  sensible  when 
sober,  he  became  quarrelsome  after  drinking;  and 
with  his  enormous  strength,  an  accident  was  always 
possible.  .  .  . 

She  insisted: 

"If  you  take  a  hand  in  this,  you  will  only  make 
things  worse." 

He  shook  his  great  head. 

"Mother,  I  haven't  been  drinking,  you  can  look 
at  me.  ...  I  swear  to  you  there'll  be  no  drink  until 
I  have  ploughed  this  furrow.  So  you  needn't  be 
afraid.  Who  said  that  Madeleine  was  living  in  sin 
with  Michael  Corbier,  of  the  Moulinettes?" 

"What'll  you  do  to  him  if  you  get  to  know?" 

"I'll  talk  to  him.     I  know  how.     All  you  need 

49 


50  N  E  N  E 

to  do  to  stop  a  slanderer's  tongue  is  to  talk  to  him 
in  the  right  way." 

"Supposing  it's  a  woman?" 

"Oh,  well  ...  if  it's  a  woman,  you  can  deal 
with  her,  but  if  it's  a  man,  you  leave  him  to  me. 
Who  told  you  about  this  slander?" 

Madame  Clarandeau  had  to  give  in. 

"Who  told  me  about  it?  Marie  Fantou,  this 
morning  before  the  rosary  prayers,  and  it  seems  that 
it  came  from  a  farm-hand  at  the  Moulinettes,  a  fel- 
low named  Boiseriot,  a  Catholic." 

"Boiseriot,  you  say?  All  right.  Good-bye, 
mother.  I'll  see  you  again  next  Sunday." 

"Good-bye,  and  keep  cool,  whatever  you  do !" 

Upon  the  threshold  he  turned  around. 

"Don't  worry.  I  haven't  been  drinking  and  I 
shan't  go  to  the  inn.  Good-bye." 

From  Coudray  to  St.  Ambroise,  Trooper  almost 
ran.  He  was  thinking. 

"Boiseriot!  I  don't  know  him,  but  he  must  be 
from  Chantepie.  Violette  was  telling  me  one  day 
about  a  fellow  of  that  name.  It's  Sunday  to-day — 
Bet  you  I'll  find  that  mass-hound  at  St.  Ambroise." 

When  he  had  reached  the  village,  he  said  to  him- 
self: 

"Mother  was  right:  Better  not  make  a  fuss.  I 
don't  know  him.  I  might  question  these  fellows  who 
are  playing  bowls,  but  they  might  suspect  something. 
I'm  not  so  simple !" 


NENE  51 

He  entered  a  tobacco  shop,  bought  a  cigar  and 
dawdled  over  lighting  it,  leaning  against  the  door 
and  muttering, 

"Well,  well!" 

The  storekeeper  asked: 

"What  are  you  looking  at,  Mr.  Clarandeau?" 

"Nothing.  I  thought  that  was  Boiseriot,  that 
fellow  passing  by." 

"Boiseriot?' 

"Yes,  the  farm-hand  at  the  Moulinettes." 

The  wife  of  the  storekeeper  explained  to  her  hu.s- 
band: 

"Yes,  you  know,  the  little  one  who  chews.  .  .  . 
He  was  here  only  a  minute  ago.  He  just  left." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Trooper. 

He  went  out  quickly  and  up  the  street. 

"You  wait,  you  dog,  with  your  quid!  Ah,  there 
you  are !  You  weren't  far  off.  I'll  give  you  some- 
thing to  think  of  on  the  way !" 

Having  caught  up  with  the  man,  Trooper  said  to 
him: 

"Is  your  name  Boiseriot?" 

"At  your  service." 

"Then  I've  a  few  things  to  say  to  you  that  won't 
take  long." 

Boiseriot' s  eyes  wavered  uncertainly. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you*?"  said  he. 

"I  was  just  going  to  tell  you.  You  don't  know 
me,  do  you?" 


52  NENE 

"Oh,  yes;  you  are  a  Clarandeau,  the  one  whom 
they  call  Trooper.  You  have  a  girl  at  Chantepie — 
Violette,  the  seamstress?" 

"Boiseriot,  that  is  none  of  your  business." 

"Pardon  me,  Violette  is  my  god-child." 

Trooper  gave  a  start,  which  did  not  escape  his 
companion's  notice.  They  walked  on  a  little,  and 
then: 

"Boiseriot,  you've  been  talking  about  my  sister 
and  the  man  she  works  for.  And  I  am  angry.  I 
heard  of  it  only  to-day.  If  I  were  drunk,  I'd  be 
likely  to  make  trouble  for  you." 

The  other,  realizing  the  effort  he  was  making  to 
control  himself,  faced  about. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  any  man." 

"You  can  say  that!  You're  not  big  enough  for 
me  to  take  you  on.  If  I  had  been  drinking,  I 
wouldn't  say — when  I'm  lit,  I  don't  always  look  so 
close — who  happens  to  get  under  my  fists." 

"Does  that  happen  often*?" 

"No  oftener  than  I  can  help;  sometimes,  just  the 
same,  I  get  into  bad  company." 

"Does  Violette  know  about  your  ways?" 

Boiseriot  glanced  up  sideways,  waiting  for  an 
answer.  Trooper  shook  his  big  body  and  let  the 
words  come  fast : 

"Never  mind  about  that !  You  have Some- 
body has  talked  about  my  sister.  For  this  once,  let 
it  pass!  If  it  happens  again,  I'll  get  hold  of  the 


NENE  53 

slanderer,  whether  he  be  Peter  or  Paul,  Dissenter  or 
Catholic  or  Protestant,  friend  or  stranger  or  enemy 
— and  I'll  knock  him  down  and  drag  him  through 
the  streets  till  his  head  cracks !  Good-bye !" 

Boiseriot  began  to  laugh. 

"You're  strong  but  stupid.  Why  should  I  talk 
about  your  sister,  when  you  are  almost  my  god-son? 
And  do  you  think  I  would  want  to  make  trouble  with 
my  boss?  Go  and  ask  him  if  we  ever  had  a  word  of 
difference  between  us." 

"What  I've  said  I've  said;  and  you  may  tell  every- 
body else.  Good-bye !" 

"So  long !  Take  the  trouble  to  find  out  who  your 
friends  are." 

They  parted,  Boiseriot,  entirely  over  his  fright, 
smiled  in  an  ugly  fashion,  and  Trooper  walked 
slowly  without  turning  around,  his  heart  in  a  tur- 
moil. 


CHAPTER  X 

ANOTHER  Sunday;  a  Sunday  in  August,  at  the 
quiet  hour  of  siesta. 

Michael  Corbier  had  thrown  himself  down  on  his 
barn  floor,  hat  over  eyes.  The  flies  had  kept  him 
awake  at  first  with  their  persistent  noisy  buzzing; 
now  that  he  had  fallen  asleep  they  were  busier  than 
ever  about  him,  but  he  had  taken  the  precaution  of 
burying  his  head  in  an  armful  of  straw,  so  that  only 
his  hands  remained  exposed,  and  there  the  skin  was 
hardened  and  almost  insensible. 

The  sun  was  beating  straight  down ;  the  two  rows 
of  piled  sheaves  were  like  the  walls  of  an  over- 
heated passage.  All  that  great  heap  of  straw 
crackled,  so  ripe,  so  dry  and  baked  it  was.  The 
sleeper  gasped  for  air,  oppressed  by  this  furnace 
heat. 

"Good  God!" 

He  had  wakened  with  a  sudden  nervous  start.  He 
did  not  stop  to  stretch  himself;  his  eyes  were  wide 
open  all  at  once. 

"Good  God!    This  is  awful!" 

He  mumbled  to  himself,  cross  and  upset,  his 
mouth  feeling  dry  and  bitter. 

Every  time  he  took  a  nap  in  the  heat  of  noon,  it 

54 


N  E  N  E  55 

was  the  same  thing.  Could  he  never  again  defend 
himself  against  these  dreams'?  Would  he  never 
again  enjoy  the  sound  sleep  of  a  tired  man? 

No  sooner  did  he  lie  down  on  that  floor  now,  than 
he  felt  a  strange  softness  flooding  his  veins. 

At  first  vague  forms  came  passing  before  his  eyes, 
beings  and  objects  that  he  could  not  have  named: 
elfin  forms  swirling  in  satanic  rounds;  sarabands, 
wafting  into  his  face  an  air  charged  with  a  hot, 
loathsome  redolence  that  made  his  senses  reel. 
Then,  at  last,  he  "saw  clear."  He  did  not  see  some- 
times one  thing,  sometimes  another;  he  always  saw 
the  same  blue  eyes,  deep  as  sin,  and  then  a  whiteness 
that  took  shape,  became  a  woman's  throat,  an 
amorous  woman's  throat,  throbbing,  swelling,  grow- 
ing— growing  till  it  filled  his  whole  vision  with  its 
vast,  triumphant  whiteness. 

Then  desire  rose  within  him  like  a  storm  fiend. 

Bolt  upright,  both  shoulders  freed  of  the  straw,  he 
took  count  of  his  shame.  His  grief  over  the  death 
of  his  wife  filled  his  heart. 

"Marguerite,  you  know  it  isn't  that  I've  forgotten 
you!  You  are  with  me  when  I  work;  your  hand  is 
still  in  mine,  softer  than  the  hands  of  all  living 
women." 

He  crinkled  his  eyelids  as  if  to  fix  more  clearly 
the  elusive  visions  of  his  happiness,  to  which  he 
wanted  to  cling. 

But  other  intruding  thoughts  besieged  his  brain. 


56  N  E  N  E 

Vainly  he  tried  to  drive  them  off  like  annoying  flies. 
They  kept  buzzing  around  in  his  head,  vivid,  ob- 
stinate, cruel. 

He  was  glad  when  his  father  got  up  at  the  other 
end  of  the  barn  and  came  toward  him.  His  father 
talked  often  and  willingly  of  the  time,  not  so  long 
past,  when  life  lay  before  Michael  like  a  flowery 
path. 

"Did  you  sleep,  father?' 

The  old  man  sat  down  on  the  straw  beside  him. 

"Not  much:  the  flies  are  terrible.    Did  you?" 

«Oh!    I! " 

The  phrase  remained  suspended  and  the  father 
knew  that  the  old  heart-wound  was  again  open.  He 
did  not  stir,  but  his  eyelids  twitched. 

There  had  never  been  any  unpleasantness  between 
father  and  son  and  they  felt  for  each  other  a  true, 
manly  affection,  a  tenderness  which,  though  silent, 
was  watchful  and  deep. 

The  father  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  groping 
for  words  of  comfort.  Finding  none  that  would 
satisfy  him,  he  ended  by  saying : 

"Better  not  borrow!  Sell  your  harvest  right 
away.  The  market  is  low,  but  it's  better  to  sell  than 
to  borrow." 

"What  were  you  saying,  father?" 

"I  say  it'll  give  you  cash  in  hand — at  least  two 
hundred  pistoles.  You  can  do  a  lot  with  a  sum  like 
that." 


N  E  N  E  57 

Michael  made  a  gesture  of  disillusioned  indiffer- 
ence. He  was  so  far  from  all  that !  He  thought : 

"My  purse  is  empty:  why  isn't  my  heart  like  my 
purse?  Why  is  it  bulging  with  worthless  coin*?" 

"Well,  now!"  exclaimed  the  father,  who  misun- 
derstood the  gesture.  "Well,  now! — Two  thou- 
sand francs,  for  certain,  at  least!  It's  a  pretty 
penny. — You're  another  one  of  those  fellows  that 
cry  before  they're  hurt/' 

Michael  let  him  talk  on,  glad  to  have  his  mind 
brought  back  to  these  simple,  homely  cares. 

Work-a-day  troubles  were  a  known  enemy  that 
you  were  used  to  wrestle  with. 

He  began  to  do  some  counting,  in  an  instinctive 
effort  to  get  away  from  himself. 

"Two  thousand  francs,  that's  at  least  three  hun- 
dred less  than  the  harvest  is  worth,  and  even  so, 
it  wouldn't  be  enough  to  make  ends  meet:  there's 
1,400  francs  for  the  leasehold,  870  for  the  two 
hands;  and  how  about  the  cost  of  threshing1?  And 
the  hired  girl?" 

"Don't  borrow;  debts  are  the  ruination  of  any 
farm!" 

"Then  what  can  we  do?    Sell  something?" 

That  roused  the  old  man. 

"Sell!  Not  while  I'm  alive,  you  won't!  The 
Chestnut  Hill  land  has  been  in  our  family,  time  out 
of  mind,  the  way  the  gentry  have  theirs.  As  for  the 
two  other  parcels,  your  mother  and  I  bought  them. 


58  N  E  N  E 

And  how  we  toiled  and  sweated  to  get  those  few 


acres !'; 


"I  toil  and  sweat  too,  father.  I,  too,  break  my 
back  working  the  soil,  oftener  than  I  walk  about 
with  my  head  in  the  clouds.  And  all  I  see  ahead  is 
trouble,  because  I  have  no  longer  anyone  but  you 
who  cares,  and  no  hand  to  help  me." 

Beneath  the  gently  spoken  words,  rebellion  rang 
out  clear.  The  father  was  moved  to  say: 

"Poor  boy,  you're  in  hard  luck,  for  certain.  But 
it's  no  use  being  rebellious  about  it.  A  man  can't 
rise  up  against  it,  nor  yet  lie  down  under  it :  he  can 
only  keep  going — that's  all." 

"Well,  I  keep  going,  don't  I!" 

They  fell  silent,  sitting  quite  still  with  their  heads 
bowed,  as  proud  men  do  to  hide  their  emotion. 

Then  the  father  spoke  again,  falteringly,  dis- 
creetly feeling  his  way. 

"Sure  enough,  you're  in  bad  luck — and  you  are  a 
good  fellow — you  deserve  better.  If  you  didn't  have 
to  pay  the  wages  of  a  hired  girl — a  first  rate  girl, 
too — things  would  be  easier,  maybe.  Though, 
speaking  of  her,  you're  in  luck  there:  your  house 
isn't  kept  just  any  old  way — like  some  houses  I  could 
mention." 

"Pshaw !    It's  kept  the  same  as  other  houses !" 

"Now,  let's  be  fair! — That  girl — you  wouldn't 
find  her  like,  I  tell  you.  I  see  how  things  go — I'm 
a  good  deal  around  the  house. — Well,  I  couldn't  fail 


NENE  59 

to  notice  how  much  trouble  she's  taking.  Look 
around !  Everything  is  neat  and  tidy — Look  at  the 
stock,  look  at  her  dairy. — And  besides,  there's 
another  reason  why  she's  better  than  the  others. 
She  makes  your  children  as  comfortable  and  cosy  as 
two  kittens  in  the  sun.  I'm  telling  you  just  what  I 
see,  my  boy." 

"Maybe  so,  but  a  servant  is  a  servant :  You  pay 
her  wages  and  she  quits.  That  kind  of  paid  help 
can  never  be  like — the  other." 

"All  right,  I  don't  say — But  see  here  now,  boy—* 
when  you're  over  your  grief " 

"I'll  never  get  over  it." 

"You  say  that.  And  it's  true,  one  never  does  get 
over  it  quite. — But  a  man  argues  himself  out  of 
it,  bye  and  bye. — Do  you  mind  if  I  speak  out, 
Michael?" 

"Of  course  not!"  the  young  man  said  expectantly. 
"You,  father,  you  can  say  anything  at  all  to  me." 

"Well,  son,  you  ought  to  marry  again.  Don't  let 
that  hurt  you  now !  I  don't  say  this  year  or  next — 
you  understand? — but  when  time  has  soothed  you  a 
bit.  All  the  same,  the  sooner  the  better,  for  your 
house  and  for  your  children.  You've  got  a  good 
housekeeper,  but  as  you  say,  she  might  leave  any 
day." 

"And  must  I  marry  her,  then,  to  make  her  stay?" 

Michael  threw  out  the  words  quickly,  angrily. 

"I'm  not  speaking  for  her  nor  for  any  other 


60  NENE 

woman  I  know.  That's  your  affair.  All  I  want  to 
say,  if  you  don't  mind,  is  that  you  need  someone  like 
her — :yes,  that  kind,  sure  enough — a  good  housewife 
who'll  be  kind  to  the  children  and  who'll  go  with 
them  to  our  chapel." 

"Father,  don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more, 
please !" 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  quick  twist  of  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"There,  now!  I've  made  you  angry!"  mumbled 
the  father. 

"Angry?  Not  at  all!  I'm  just  going  over  there 
— walk  a  little. — My  legs  are  all  numb." 

He  went  toward  the  farm  buildings  and  around 
them,  passing  through  the  goat  pasture  in  the  rear. 
Everything  neat  and  tidy,  his  father  had  said.  He 
was  forced  to  admit  that  so  it  was.  Some  wash  was 
drying  on  the  hedge,  all  carefully  spread  out.  He 
noticed  some  dishcloths — mere  rags,  but  washed  very 
white.  Why  had  she  taken  so  much  trouble  over 
them?  Did  she  think  she  might  still  make  some  use 
of  them? 

He  took  the  path  to  the  pond.  On  fine  Sundays 
like  this,  he  used  to  stroll  along  it  with  Marguerite 
and  Lalie.  In  the  shade  of  a  big  oak  at  the  edge 
of  the  shimmering  water,  he  had  lived  the  tenderest 
hours  of  his  life. 

He  reached  the  meadow, — found  it  as  soft  and 
springy  as  ever  under  his  tread.  He  walked  along 


NENE  61 

the  border  hedge :  as  in  other  days,  the  hazel  nuts 
were  ripening  in  their  little  yellow  cups, — just  like 
the  nuts  he  had  held  out  to  Marguerite  at  the  tips 
of  bent  branches  and  that  she  had  cracked  between 
her  pretty  teeth.  As  in  other  days,  there  was  the 
wagon  gap  in  the  hedge,  beside  a  rowan-tree  from 
which  the  blackbirds  scurried;  from  that  point  you 
could  see  the  pond  and,  leaning  forward  a  little,  the 
round  top  of  that  same  oak  in  the  shadow  of 
which 

"Ah!" 

He  stood  still. 

In  the  shadow  of  that  great  oak,  at  the  edge  of 
the  shimmering  water,  a  young  woman  in  Sunday 
finery  was  playing  with  a  little  child — as  in  other 
days! 


CHAPTER  XI 

ALL  through  the  week  Lalie  had  begged  Made- 
leine to  take  her  nut-gathering,  and  this  very 
Sunday  Madeleine  had  at  last  given  in. 

As  the  weather  was  fine,  she  had  dressed  the  chil- 
dren in  their  prettiest.  That  very  morning,  she  had 
purchased,  with  her  own  money,  a  small  bottle  of 
scent  for  them.  She  had  sprinkled  it  lavishly  over 
their  hair,  and  the  baby  in  her  arms  was  fragrant 
as  a  nosegay. 

In  the  hedge  by  the  meadow — how  beautiful  the 
meadow  was! — she  had  picked  hazel  nuts.  And 
then  she  had  strolled  down  to  the  pond,  behind  Jo 
who  had  trotted  ahead,  darting  to  right  and  left. 
How  shiny  the  pond  was ! 

In  the  shade  of  an  oak  she  sat  down  and  cracked 
the  nuts.  Using  her  best  pocket  knife,  that  she  kept 
for  wedding  feasts  and  such  great  occasions,  she 
opened  the  brown  shells,  while  two  little  greedy 
mouths  watched  for  the  kernels. 

Down  where  my  garden  flowers  twine. 
On  air  I  go,  0  heart  of  mine, 
To  pluck  the  rose  and  columbine; — 
The  air  is  light  as  wine/ 

There  she  was,  actually  singing !    What  made  her 

heart  so  light?    Perhaps  the  pretty  pearl-handled 

62 


NENE  63 

knife,  so  dainty  that  she  hardly  felt  it  in  her  hand, 
was  a  lover's  gift?  Not  so.  All  it  recalled  to  her 
mind  was  feasting — no  memory  of  courtship,  noth- 
ing that  touched  her  heart.  Was  it  then  because 
the  meadow  was  so  lovely"?  Because  the  pond  shim- 
mered so"?  Because  the  children  were  laughing  and 
smelled  sweet  as  aromatic  herbs? 

No,  no — none  of  these  was  a  reason — 

A  thrush  comes  winging  from  a  vine; — 
On  air  I  go,  0  heart  of  mine! 

Jo  wanted  to  sing,  too;  Lalie  shouted: 
"Yoo!    Yoo-oo!" 

And  greets   me  with   his   merry    line: 
"The  air  is  light  as  wine.1" 

A  softness  had  come  over  Madeleine,  like  the 
touch  of  a  hand.  She  felt  her  bosom  throbbing  with 
a  great,  groundless  joy  that  was  all  pervading  and 
yet  fragile.  When  she  was  eighteen,  of  a  festive 
morning  when  the  young  people  were  preparing  for 
a  party,  she  had  felt  like  this — as  light  as  a  sparrow. 

"What  a  foolish  thing  I  am!  Poor  bee  in  the 
rain !  November  swallow !" 

The  air  is  light  as  winef" 

The  little  ones  hung  about  her  neck  with  shouts 
and  pummelings  and  peals  of  laughter  and  strenuous, 
awkward  wrestlings.  She  let  herself  tumble  over, 
surrendered  her  head  to  them,  played  with  them  foe 


64  NENE 

a  while,  forgetful  of  all  else  and  overwhelmed  with 
tenderness. 

"Madeleine !    Come  here !    Madeleine !" 

Lalie,  who  quickly  tired  of  any  game,  had  gone 
close  to  the  railing  at  the  edge  of  "the  pond.  At  first 
she  had  thrown  pebbles  into  the  water.  Now  that 
she  had  exhausted  the  supply,  she  was  throwing  in 
some  belladonna  berries. 

"Madeleine,  see  the  fish!" 

Madeleine  came  close  with  the  baby.  The  water, 
looking  black  from  a  distance,  was  on  the  contrary 
wonderfully  limpid.  When  a  berry  touched  the  sur- 
face, the  fish  rose  to  it  from  below.  They  were 
small  but  very  lively  roach ;  their  yellow  eyes,  their 
round  mouths  and  pink,  lacy  fins  were  clearly  visible. 
They  snapped  up  the  berries  so  quickly,  you  hardly 
saw  them  swallow. 

"Snap!  Snap!  There's  another —  The  greedy 
things!" 

"Lalie,  you  mustn't  lean  over  so»  far.  Come, 
Lalie!" 

Madeleine  took  the  children  back  under  the  oak. 
She  had  been  afraid  of  the  water  ever  since  child- 
hood. A  half-witted  old  aunt  had  told  her  so  many 
stories  about  bad  fairies  and  black  water  witches 
that  she  always  felt  a  kind  of  mysterious,  fearsome 
fascination  in  the  sleepy  waters  of  a  pond. 

"You  mustn't  go  too  near,  do  you  hear  me,  dear? 


N  E  N  E  65 

The  water  is  full  of  wicked  creatures,  that  pull  little 
children  in  by  the  feet!" 

"Let's  play,  Madeleine !"  said  Lalie  without  list- 
ening. "I'll  be  a  peddlar  woman,  I'll  be  selling  pins; 
Jo'll  be  a  little  boy  and  you'll  be  his  mamma. 
You're  inside  your  house.  You  see?  These  little 
sticks  are  my  pins.  I'll  knock  at  your  door — 'Any- 
body at  home1?'  You'll  say,  'How  do  you  do, 
Ma'am,  I  want  some  pins  to  pin  my  little  boj;'s 
didies' — do  you  hear,  Madeleine?  Jo  is  a  little  boy, 
you  are  his  mamma!  If  you'd  rather,  I  could  be 
selling  sugar  almonds.  Jo'll  say,  'Mama,  I  want 
some  candy' — " 

"Silly!  Don't  you  know  he  can't  talk  yet?  Just 
listen  to  him !" 

"Ma — ma — ma !"  babbled  Jo. 

"We  must  teach  him,  Madeleine!  Jojo,  say 
'Mam-ma,  I  want ' ' 

"Ma— ma— ma— Ooh !" 

"You  don't  know  how  to  play,  Jo,"  said  his  sis- 
ter; "Lalie  is  going  to  play  all  by  herself." 

Madeleine,  with  a  sudden  flush,  had  picked  up 
the  baby;  she  held  him  up  before  her,  her  face  close 
to  his. 

"Jo,  my  little  Jojo,  say  'mam-ma,  mam-ma* " 

She  raised  pleading  eyes.  Her  tender  emotion 
of  the  afternoon  was  sweeping  her  on  to  this  strange, 
unknown  passion  of  feeling —  Falling  in  love  must 
be  like  that !  She  was  carried  away — unashamed. 


66  N  E  N  E 

"Jo!    Listen!    Mam-ma!    Mam-ma!" 

"Madeleine!" 

Her  shoulders  sank  together,  the  blood  rushed  to 
her  heart.  Corbier  was  standing  behind  the  hedge, 
a  few  steps  away. 

For  one  instant  Madeleine's  eyes  were  wide  and 
radiant;  for  one  instant  a  great  brightness  flooded 
her  soul —  Then  everything  went  dark.  Corbier, 
white-faced,  raised  his  hand  as  if  to  hurl  the  words 
at  her: 

"Madeleine!  This  is  mortal  sin!  I  forbid  you 
this  abomination!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

FOR  three  days  they  said  no  word  to  each  other. 
At  meal  times  Madeleine  fed  the  children  and 
took  her  own  meals  standing  by  the  fireplace,  with- 
out a  word. 

Corbier  spoke  to  his  father  or  to  the  hands  with- 
out ever  turning  his  head  toward  his  housekeeper. 
Contrary  to  his  habit,  Boiseriot  grew  facetious. 
From  under  his  peak  cap  his  wolfish  eyes  glistened 
with  malicious  glee. 

On  the  second  day,  in  the  barn,  Michael  had  an- 
swered a  question  of  his  father  in  a  vague  way, 
turning  pale: 

"There's  nothing  wrong — but,  after  you,  I'm  the 
only  master  here." 

The  master !  yes — the  one  who  gave  orders  to  the 
farm-hands,  who  planned  for  the  plowing  and  the 
sowing,  the  buying  and  selling;  but  he  was  not  mas- 
ter of  his  own  imaginings.  In  truth,  he  did  not 
know  what  was  in  his  heart,  whether  love  or  hate, 
kindness  or  anger.  There  was  pride,  for  a  certainty, 
the  pride  of  resisting  the  surge  of  his  strong  young 
blood;  the  pride,  too,  of  not  going  back  on  a  too 
harsh  word. 

It  was  much  the  same  with  Madeleine.    She  had 

67 


68  N  E  N  E 

cried  with  shame;  cried  with  the  pain,  too,  of  an 
unexpected,  brutal  and  secret  wound.  The  un- 
acknowledged dream  that  had  sprung  up  and  flow- 
ered in  her  like  a  white  bush  hidden  under  denser 
foliage  had  been  hacked  down,  pulled  out  by  the 
roots.  The  hurt  was  too  cruel.  Whack !  One  great 
blow  of  the  axe  at  a  fragrant  hawthorn — one 
thrust  of  the  spade  in  the  middle  of  a  flowerbed ! 

All  for  a  bit  of  playfulness! — for  it  was  all  in 
play,  really !  Lalie  had  started  the  game — he  might 
have  inquired,  first — then  he  would  have  under- 
stood ! —  Such  awful  words,  to  her ! —  Loving  the 
children  was  no  reason  why  she  should  be  thinking 
of  anything  wrong.  She  did  love  the  children, — 
very,  very  much — she  had  indeed  quite  lost  her 
heart  to  them! — and  why  not?  Why  shouldn't  she 
show  it," too? 

"  'Mortal  sin !'  Perhaps  you  are  thinking  things, 
Michael? — because  you  are  good  to  look  at!  My 
Lord,  you  are  not  the  only  one !" 

It  had  come  to  Wednesday  evening,  and  Made- 
leine was  feverishly  clearing  the  table.  The  men 
had  gone  to  their  rooms;  the  children  were  asleep. 

"I'll  go  away.  I  can't  stay  on  after  what  he  said. 
I'd  grown  used  to  the  place,  but  all  I  care  about  is 
the  children — truly! —  I'll  miss  them,  the  darl- 
ings,— but  none  of  the  others! —  I'll  go  to  a  big 
farm,  like  last  year;  I'll  have  more  freedom  there. 
They  are  getting  me  all  muddled  between  them, 


N  E  N  E  69 

those  I  like  and  those  I  don't  like.  In  the  end,  I 
don't  know  which  way  to  turn.  And  work  all  the 
time,  from  sun-up  to  sun-down,  and  'way  into  the 
night,  and  before  dawn  sometimes,  too.  Nobody  to 
lay  out  the  work  for  you,  and  no  thanks  to  you ! — 
I  ought  to  have  left  right  away.  When  I  see  him 
come  in  and  sit  with  the  others,  never  looking  at  me, 
it's — it's  humiliating! —  He  is  angry,  of  course; 
but  if  he'd  only  speak  out,  as  before,  his  anger  would 
pass,  maybe.  But  he  won't ! —  All  right,  then !  I 
quit,  Michael  Corbier !  You  can  hire  somebody  else, 
one  that's  better  looking. —  You  can  marry  her,  for 
all  I  care." 

Madeleine  threw  down  the  cloth  she  used  for  nib- 
bing the  furniture;  but  she  picked  it  up  again,  think- 
ing: 

"I'll  quit,  but  I  won't  have  the  blame  put  on  me ! 
I'll  do  my  work  to  the  end  and  he'll  have  no  fault  to 
find  with  me.  To-morrow  he's  got  to  pick  a  quarrel 
with  me.  I'll  get  angry  and  then,  good-bye !  How 
could  I  manage  it"? —  Ah !  I've  got  it !" 

She  jumped  on  a  chair  and  took  down  the  pistols. 
Then  she  went  to  fetch  a  large  piece  of  emery  paper 
and  started  to  rub  and  polish. 

"Ah,  you  old  popguns,  you !  I'm  going  to  make 
you  shine  like  the  candlesticks  in  the  chapel." 

Madeleine ! —    Mortal  sin ! 

"B-rr!  Do  you  think  it  is"?  Just  because  you've 
served  to  kill  enemies  with*?" 


70  N  E  N  E 

Madeleine,  I  forbid  you  this  abomination ! 

"Or  maybe  women  too,  and  robbers  perhaps,  in 
the  time  when  people  were  worse  than  savages? — 
Say  that  again,  Corbier,  that  it  was  an  abomina- 
tion  " 

A  scene  would  now  be  inevitable ;  she  would  leave 
on  the  spot. 

That  very  night  she  would  get  her  belongings  to- 
gether, so  that  she  could  pack  them  up  at  a  minute's 
notice.  She  opened  her  clothes-press,  folded  up  her 
skirts,  looked  about  for  her  handkerchiefs. 

The  children's  things  were  mixed  up  with  hers. 
Angry  as  she  was,  it  wrung  her  heart  to  pick  them  out 
and  lay  them  away  separately. 

She  took  her  bottle  of  scent  and  set  it  on  the  top 
shelf,  right  in  the  centre.  She  had  bought  it  for 
them  and  she'd  leave  it  to  them.  But  the  girl  who'd 
take  her  place  would  probably  use  it  for  herself. 
Ah,  not  that !  Certainly  not ! 

Then  she  took  out  the  little  vests  and  stockings, 
the  baby's  bibs,  and  Lalie's  pinafores  and  hair  rib- 
bons. When  she  had  them  all  spread  out  on  the 
table,  she  emptied  her  bottle  on  them,  drop  by  drop, 
as  if  she  were  sprinkling  holy  water. 

"My  little  darlings — may  it  bring  you  happi- 


ness!'3 


She  wanted  to  do  something  more  for  them,  but 
it  was  late ;  and  so  that  she  might  not  call  attention 


NENE  71 

to  her  doings,  she  stepped  out  of  her  wooden  shoes 
and  went  about  the  room  noiselessly. 

She  found  holes  in  Jo's  stockings  and  mended 
them.  Lalie  was  growing  fast;  her  Sunday  pina- 
fore had  become  too  short.  She'd  soon  have  nothing 
nice  to  put  on  of  a  Sunday,  and  she  wouldn't  look 
as  neat  and  pretty  as  the  other  little  girls,  who 
hadn't  lost  their  mothers. 

Madeleine  had  an  apron  of  old  print,  with  a  red 
flower  pattern;  she  cut  it  up  and,  with  a  skill  that 
astonished  even  herself,  she  made  a  flounce  of  it  to 
lengthen  the  pinafore,  and  a  new  belt,  too. 

It  was  almost  midnight;  she  worked  on  with 
painstaking  slowness. 

When  the  pinafore  was  made  as  good  as  new,  she 
looked  about  to  see  what  else  she  could  do.  Noth- 
ing. All  the  poor  little  clothes  were  mended  and 
clean  and  neat. 

Her  work  all  done,  Madeleine  broke  down  and 
cried. 

In  what  state  would  everything  be  in  a  couple 
of  weeks'?  Who  would  be  taking  care  of  Jo? 
Would  anyone  think  of  him,  except  to  stuff  him  with 
thick  soup?  He  was  still  used  to  getting  his  bottle 
when  he  was  put  to  bed.  Twice  a  day  he  got  a 
new-laid  egg,  boiled  very  soft,  and  it  took  some 
patience  to  feed  it  to  him  in  little  spoonfuls. 

"My  poor  babies!  But  after  all,  it's  not  impos- 
sible that  the  woman  your  father  will  get  in  my 


72  N  E  N  E 

place  will  be  good  to  you.  You'll  love  her,  you'll 
forget  Madeleine, — and  when  you've  grown  up  you 
won't  even  remember  me." 

Her  tears  trickled  on  the  garments  as  she  laid 
them  away  again  in  the  clothes-press. 

"But  I  can't  stay  on.  Your  father  is  wicked — I 
am  wicked — people  grow  wicked  when  they  grow 
up.  They  don't  know  how  to  forgive  things.  We 
aren't  any  better  than  they  were  in  the  old  time 
when  they  kept  fighting  each  other." 

Madeleine  wept  as  she  looked  at  the  cradle  and 
at  her  shiny  new-fashioned  bed,  where  Lalie  was 
sleeping. 

She  had  a  box  where  she  kept  some  ribbons,  a 
ring,  a  pin  and  a  little  silver  necklace.  She  slipped 
the  necklace  around  Lalie's  neck,  under  the  hair. 
As  for  Jo,  she  had  nothing  to  give  him  that  would 
be  suitable  to  his  age.  And  during  the  four  months 
she  had  been  at  the  Moulinettes  she  had  not  thought 
of  buying  a  single  trifle  for  him  to  remember  her  by. 

But  then,  she  had  never  thought  of  leaving  so 
soon! 

At  any  rate  she'd  keep  him  close  to  her  as  long 
as  she  could.  As  soon  as  she  had  undressed  she 
lifted  the  baby  out  of  his  cradle  and  took  him  with 
her  to  bed. 

The  baby  half  awoke  and  grumbled  because  he 
had  lost  the  nipple  that  he  was  used  to  go  to  sleep 
with.  His  two  little  hands  fumbled  about  Made- 


NENE  73 

leine's  bosom;  he  bumped  his  head  into  it, — lips 
parted  and  searching. 

Madeleine  had  stopped  crying.  She  was  not 
quite  asleep  yet,  but  her  thoughts  were  wandering 
away,  escaping  her  to  whence  she  could  not  call  them 
back.  The  baby  had  nestled  against  her,  and  as  she 
slipped  away  into  dreamland  she  still  felt  the  solace 
of  the  moist  little  mouth  against  her  breast. 

Ding!  ding!  ding! 

With  a  gurgle  like  running  water  the  old  clock 
in  the  corner  warned  that  it  was  three. 

Madeleine  jumped  out  of  bed.  In  her  bare  feet, 
without  stopping  to  clothe  herself,  she  ran  to  the 
fireplace  and  tried  to  smudge  the  shining  pistols  with 
a  greasy  cloth, — stealthily,  like  someone  doing  some- 
thing wrong. 

No  use!  At  breakfast  everybody  noticed  the 
harm  that  had  been  done.  Michael  said  nothing, 
but  his  father  flared  up  angrily : 

"Madeleine,  I  told  you  not  to  do  that !" 

Madeleine  turned  very  red  and  apologised,  pre- 
tending she  had  forgotten.  And,  before  them  all, 
she  humbly  let  the  old  man  scold  her  like  a  silly 
schoolgirl. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AS  usual,  the  Corbiers  and  the  Danis,  of  Chest- 
nut Hill,  had  joined  forces  for  the  threshing. 
This  year,  they  were  the  last  of  the  neighbourhood 
to  thresh.  As  it  was  late  in  the  season,  they  were 
able  to  hire  the  machine  and  crew  cheap;  but  they 
saved  little  because  of  the  usual  feasting  that  termi- 
nates the  year's  threshing  time. 

It  was  Saturday,  a  fast  day  for  the  Dissenters  but 
a  meat  day  for  the  Catholics.  So  there  were  two 
tables  set  up  at  the  Corbiers'  for  fear  of  a  row  among 
the  tipsy  yokels. 

All  had  gone  well  at  breakfast.  The  Corbiers  had 
thirty-five  men  working  for  them, — men  of  all  ages 
and  of  various  faiths.  But  as  they  had  been  thresh- 
ing side  by  side  now  for  more  than  a  month  around 
the  countryside,  they  were  used  to  one  another  and 
rarely  quarrelled. 

Trooper  had  been  let  by  his  employer,  a  farmer 
named  Rivard,  down  the  valley.  He  hadn't 
touched  wine  during  the  whole  threshing  season. 
Madeleine,  who  was  afraid  he  might  weaken  on  this 
last  day,  stopped  him  in  the  passage : 

"See  here,  now!  No  foolishness!  I  wouldn't 
like  it " 

74 


N  E  N  E  75 

He  had  replied: 

*Tm  feeding  the  threshing  machine  and  I 
wouldn't  like  to  be  fed  to  it !" 

And  since  they  were  alone  and  he  was  very  fond 
of  this  older  sister  of  his,  he  had  gone  on  frankly : 

"Besides,  just  to  see  you  helps  to  keep  me  straight, 
big  sister.  If  you'd  like,  I'll  sit  beside  Samuel  the 
Salvationist  at  the  dinner  table,  and  you  can  put 
a  pitcher  of  water  between  us." 

The  tables  were  set  up  in  the  barn  to  the  left  of 
the  farm  buildings.  Madeleine  had  her  kitchen  to 
herself.  She  had  hired  for  the  day  an  elderly  woman 
to  help  her,  a  Dissenter  who  followed  the  threshing 
machine  from  one  farm  to  another,  washing  the 
dishes  and  carrying  wine  to  the  workers,  toward  eve- 
ning, when  the  men  began  to  get  a  little  too  forward 
with  the  girls. 

Madeleine's  two  younger  sisters  had  come  to  help 
her  also:  Tiennette  and  Fridoline;  the  last  more  of 
a  red-head  than  Madeleine,  and  Tiennette  as  young 
and  fresh  and  full  of  laughter  as  a  shepherdess  out 
of  a  book. 

Madeleine  looked  after  the  children  and  managed 
everything.  Fridoline  took  charge  of  the  fasters* 
table,  where  there  was  a  great  supply  of  food.  She 
was  a  good  cook  and  the  men  didn't  bother  her  much 
because  she  didn't  have  much  use  for  their  pleasant- 
ries; also,  perhaps,  because  she  was  not  particularly 
good-looking. 


76  N  E  N  E 

Tiennette  and  the  old  woman  had  charge  of  the 
meat  table,  which  needed  much  less  care;  two  or 
three  great  platters  of  meat,  cooked  hit  or  miss, 
with  water,  butter  and  salt, — without  measuring  or 
tasting,  of  course.  The  old  woman  hung  over  the 
pots,  looking  like  a  sourceress  who  would  throw  in 
salt  and  maledictions  together. 

Tiennette  had  plenty  of  time  and  to  spare.  The 
kitchen  work  bothered  her  far  less  than  the  men's 
teasing.  There  were  six  of  them  who  carried  the 
grain  sacks ;  not  all  of  them  good  looking,  but  all  as 
young  as  herself — six  boys  of  eighteen  years,  who 
trotted  in  single  file  through  the  passage  and  up  to 
the  loft.  Gideon,  who  was  one  of  them,  gave  him- 
self airs  of  importance  because  he  was  one  of  the 
household.  He  showed  the  others  where  to  empty 
their  sacks  and,  in  passing,  stepped  into  the  kitchen 
to  say: 

"The  Dathel  field  has  grown  big  ears  all  right, 
but  some  of  the  husks  are  empty." 

"That's  too  bad,"  said  Madeleine,  listening  to  the 
wheat  running  from  the  sacks  up  there  in  the  loft, 
which  meant  the  wealth  of  the  farm. 

Sometimes  the  lad  would  tear  down  stairs  breath- 
lessly and  shout  in : 

"I'm  all  done  up !  Tiennette !  Tiennette !  Come 
and  help  me !" 

"Stupid!"  the  girl  would  reply,  "if  you  put  your 
dirty  fingers  on  my  collar  I'll  box  your  ears." 


N  E  N  E  77 

Nevertheless  she  managed  to  be  standing  in  the 
hall,  waiting  for  him  to  pass  by  again,  with  a  little 
air  of  expectancy. 

"Tiennette,  give  me  a  drink." — "Tiennette,  some- 
thing's burning  in  your  pots!'* 

"It'll  be  good  enough  for  you!  What  table  are 
you  going  to  sit  at,  you  bad  boy  of  a  Protestant*?" 

"Me*?    At  the  one  where  you  serve  the  soup." 

"Of  course !  At  the  meat  table, — you  villain  of 
a  Protestant !" 

"Tiennette,  day  after  Carnival  I'll  eat  your 
cheeks!" 

He  teased  her  with  such  simple  pleasantries,  and 
she  pretended  to  be  angry.  When  they  happened 
to  be  alone,  he  kissed  her  without  any  ado  on  her 
part. 

The  other  five  were  scarcely  less  noisy.  They, 
too,  teased  Tiennette,  but  she  drove  them  away  with 
loud  protests,  and  as  they  were  all  very  young,  they 
did  not  dare  to  touch  her  with  their  soiled  hands. 

Besides,  they  had  their  work,  and  a  minute  of  fool- 
ing meant  five  minutes  of  rushing. 

Time  was  short.  The  threshing  machine  had  to 
swallow  some  six  thousands  sheaves  that  day,  and 
although  she  was  a  great  eater,  there  must  be  no 
loitering  if  the  work  was  to  be  finished  before  night. 

The  feeders  at  the  machine,  standing  on  the  nar- 
row footholds  at  her  sides,  pushed  the  ears  in  care- 
fully. Sometimes  they  threw  in  whole  sheaves, 


78  N  E  N  E 

which  she  ate  up  with  a  pleased  bark;  a  short  second, 
and  there  came  from  the  depths  of  her  long  black 
jaws  a  rattle  of  extraordinary  satisfaction;  then,  in- 
stantly, she  began  all  over  again  to  snarl,  to  rumble 
and  roar. 

Six  men  were  serving  the  machine:  two  who  cut 
the  bands  and  prepared  the  sheaves,  and  four  feed- 
ers, who  threw  the  grain  into  the  hopper,  each  in  his 
turn.  In  all  there  were  some  fifty  men. 

The  younger  men  climbed  on  top  of  the  stack  and 
flung  down  the  sheaves;  the  strongest  among  them 
were  at  the  sacks ;  the  older  men  took  the  slower  and 
more  particular  work,  raking  and  sorting  the  broken 
ears,  or  were  employed  at  such  work  as  the  young 
fellows  avoided  on  account  of  the  dust. 

To  build  up  the  straw  stacks  there  were  seven  or 
eight  husky  lads,  proud  of  their  strength.  The  tos- 
sers  prepared  enormous  forkfuls  for  them  and  when 
they  stuck  their  forks  in  and  lifted  up  the  load,  they 
were  completely  hidden  under  the  straw,  which 
seemed  to  be  slowly  moving  up  of  its  own  accord 
along  the  long  ladders. 

One  of  them,  a  tall,  dark  fellow  with  a  very  fine 
voice,  sang  uninterruptedly  an  interminable  song  of 
almost  similar  couplets.  The  others  tried  to  sing 
with  him,  but  their  voices  could  not  follow  his. 
They  preferred  to  howl  a  sort  of  accompaniment 
from  the  ladder  tops,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
shout : 


N  E  N  E  79 

"Give  us  a  drink !    A  drink !" 

Then  Tiennette  came  and  poured  out  wine  for 
them,  and  they  all  found  her  good  to  look  at,  even 
those  whose  affections  were  already  engaged. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  drinking.  Even  the  elderly 
straw-tossers  welcomed  the  bottle  and,  glass  in  hand, 
they  told  funny  stories.  Tiennette  went  from  one 
to  the  other,  gliding  between  the  pitchforks  and 
climbing  over  the  straw,  light  and  nimble  as  a 
young  white  goat.  Coming  up  to  the  machine,  she 
held  up  the  bottle. 

"Hey  there,  feeders!" 

But  they  didn't  hear,  so  absorbed  were  they  in 
their  strenuous  task;  or  else  they  shook  their  heads 
quickly,  as  much  as  to  say : 

"No,  no!    Not  now!" 

The  second  time  Tiennette  came  around,  Boiseriot 
and  Trooper,  whose  turn  it  was  to  rest,  called  to 
her.  But  Trooper  took  nothing  but  a  drink  of 
water,  and  Boiseriot  remarked  on  it : 

"Water?  Are  you  afraid  of  a  glass  of  wine  to- 
day— a  man  like  you*?" 

"I  know  myself,  you  see,"  said  Trooper. 
"After  the  second  glass,  I'm  inclined  to  do  wild 
things.  When  the  job's  done,  I  can  drink  as  much 
as  I  want.  Anyway,"  he  added,  pointing  at  the 
others,  "there'll  be  enough  of  them  lit  up  pretty  soon, 
without  me." 

When  Corbier's  crew  gathered  in  the  bam  for 


8o  NENE 

the  mid-day  meal,  their  joking  became  at  once  noisy 
and  rough.  The  heavy  wine  flowed  fast :  Tiennette 
was  kept  running  to  the  house  for  more. 

From  the  end  of  the  meat  tablea  Gideon  called  for 
her  ten  times  oftener  than  anybody  else,  and  she 
never  failed  to  hear  his  voice  above  the  others. 

"Tiennette,  listen!" 

Once  he  leaned  over  and  said  something  in  her 
ear.  At  that  moment  Samuel,  the  one  whom  they 
called  the  Salvationist,  a  man  in  the  forties,  who  sat 
opposite  at  the  other  table,  touched  Tiennette's  arm 
and  said  in  a  low,  very  polite  voice : 

"Mademoiselle,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  fill 
this  pitcher  with  water*?" 

Irritated,  she  repeated  loudly : 

"Fill  this  pitcher  with  water !  hey,  here's  one  of  a 
new  kind !  He  wants  water !" 

Everybody  laughed  and  Gideon  shouted: 

"He  isn't  a  man;  he's  a  duck!" 

Samuel  turned  scarlet. 

"You're  insulting,  young  man,"  said  he.  "I  in- 
sult nobody.  I'm  merely  living  up  to  my  convic- 
tions— Besides,  if  your  education  hadn't  been 
neglected,  you'd  know  that  wine " 

Heedless  of  his  surroundings,  he  turned  his  feeble 
frame  around  on  the  bench  and  launched  an  address, 
punctuated  by  lean  gestures — a  sermon  such  as  are 
heard  at  temperance  meetings. 

At  first  there  was  silence,  as  they  didn't  know 


NENE  81 

what  to  make  of  his  talk;  but  soon  they  began  to 
jeer  at  him. 

Another  one  of  those  queer  fellows — this  Samuel, 
— they  thought.  Wasn't  he  trying  to  tell  them  that 
it  was  a  sin  to  drink  wine"? 

Gideon  shouted  again,  delighted  with  his  joke : 

"He's  a  duck !"  And  when  Tiennette  brought  the 
pitcher  of  water  he  took  it  excitedly  out  of  her  hand 
and,  pouring  a  glassful,  said:  "There,  duckling! 
Stick  your  bill  in  that !" 

Taking  no  notice  of  the  insolence,  Samuel  raised 
his  glass: 

"I  drink  the  water  of  Redemption " 

Gusts  of  laughter  drowned  the  rest  of  his  speech. 
Gideon,  still  holding  the  water-pitcher,  yelled: 

"Don't  spare  it,  old  man,  if  it  does  you  any 
good!" 

At  the  Dissenter's  table,  some  one  disapproved  of 
the  boy's  behaviour.  Corbier  motioned  to  him  to 
keep  still. 

Samuel  kept  on  talking.  Above  the  general  noise, 
bits  of  sentences,  fragments  of  Bible  quotations 
stood  out  : 

"There  are  those  who  shall  weep. —  They  have 
eyes  but  they  see  not. —  Verily  I  say  unto 
you " 

At  the  meat  table,  a  Protestant  argued : 

"That  doesn't  make  sense.  It  is  not  what  enters 
the  body  that  sullies  the  soul." 


82  N  E  N  E 

"That's  your  idea,"  Boiseriot  answered,  "but 
everybody  isn't  of  your  faith." 

"No,"  added  another  Catholic,  "a  man's  a  Chris- 
tian or  he  isn't. —  We  have  priests  to  lead  us,  and 
all  we  have  to  do  is  follow  them.  Some  folks  live 
like  the  animals " 

The  Protestant  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  cut  off 
a  slice  of  pork;  he  had  ceased  to  believe  very  deeply 
in  anything,  so  these  discussions  seemed  silly  to  him. 
But  the  reply  came  like  a  shot  from  the  Dissenters' 
table. 

"That's  it !  Just  follow  the  shepherd,  even  if  he 
leads  you  to  a  rotten  pasture ! —  Who  lives  like  the 
animals'?" 

Immediately  the  two  sides  stared  at  each  other 
with  eyes  full  of  hate,  the  old  men  as  well  as  the 
young.  The  meal  ended  in  a  row.  The  Dissenter 
who  had  spoken  shouted  to  Boiseriot  and  his  com- 
panion : 

"Will  you  come  outside?" 

The  women  had  come  running  toward  the  barn 
and  stood  at  the  entrance,  trembling  with  apprehen- 
sion. Fortunately  no  one  was  drunk  yet ;  so  it  didn't 
come  to  anything  worse  than  words,  so  far. 

Trooper  was  one  of  the  calmest  of  the  lot.  He 
argued  quietly: 

"The  Salvationist  is  right — he  stands  up  for  his 
ideas.  Everybody's  free  to  do  as  he  likes.  If  he 
wants  to  drink  water,  let  him.  Wine  is  both  good 


N  E  N  E  83 

and  bad.  It  warms  a  man,  and  then  it  burns  him. 
He  says  he  doesn't  want  to  poison  himself;  I  agree 
with  him!" 

While  arguing  thus,  he  poured  down  several 
bumpers  and  little  by  little  the  wine  whipped  up  his 
nerves.  Madeleine  kept  her  eyes  on  him,  but  she 
did  not  want  to  warn  him  in  the  presence  of  the 
other  men.  She  was  watching  Michael  also,  for  she 
knew  he  was  headstrong,  very  proud,  and  harsh  in 
religious  discussions.  He  said  not  a  word,  because 
they  were  at  his  house,  but  he  was  pale  and  his  jaws 
were  set. 

"They're  sure  to  come  to  blows!"  said  the  old 
serving  woman. 

And  as  she  was  familiar  with  this  sort  of  scene, 
she  went  along  between  the  two  tables,  calling  to 
this  one  and  that: 

"Keep  still,  you  fool! —  Eat  your  meat,  there, 
— and  then  drink!" 

At  his  end  of  the  table  Samuel,  with  eyes  aflame, 
kept  on  preaching.  He  had  stood  up  to  make  him- 
self better  heard,  flinging  anathemas  right  and  left, 
mixing  up  everything:  the  curse  of  alcohol  and  the 
blood  of  Christ,  Babylon  and  the  distillers. 

The  old  serving  woman  gripped  his  hands,  hold- 
ing them  down: 

"Keep  still !  you're  a  bigger  fool  than  the  rest  of 
them,  do  you  hear^" 

But  nothing  could  stop  him;  and  Gideon,  who  at 


84  N  E  N  E 

first  had  laughed  at  him  to  the  point  of  tears,  being 
one  of  those  who  always  laugh  at  such  things,  now 
became  angry  and  threatened  to  stop  the  preacher's 
mouth  with  his  fist.  Hadn't  he  spoken  of  the  loose- 
ness of  youth,  pointing  his  finger  at  him  and  Tien- 
nette? 

At  last  the  engineer,  seeing  the  turn  things  were 
taking,  hurried  out,  and  an  imperious  whistle  pierced 
the  bedlam. 

Suddenly  calmed,  they  went  out  and  followed  the 
machine  to  Chestnut  Hill. 

On  the  little  threshing  floor  at  Daru's  place, 
ringed  about  by  the  farm  buildings,  the  heat  became 
intolerable.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  air;  a  thick 
dust  settled  on  the  men.  Samuel,  whose  job  it  was 
to  receive  the  grain  behind  the  winnowing  machine, 
had  disappeared  from  sight  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

One  of  the  feeders,  a  tall,  lean  youth,  fell  in  a 
faint;  he  was  carried  out  into  the  shade  and  the 
feeders  whose  turn  of  rest  it  was  threw  water  in 
his  face. 

The  work  was  progressing  slowly  and  in  silence 
now;  only  that  devil  of  a  straw  passer  kept  on  sing- 
ing. 

Then  Daru  made  the  round  with  an  armful  of  bot- 
tles, shouting: 

"Come  on,  fellows,  have  some  muscadet !" 

Behind  him  came  the  women  with  more  of  the 
wine.  Daru  went  on: 


N  E  N  E  85 

"Taste  it;  this  isnt  dealer's  wine!  My  brother- 
in-law  sends  it  to  me  from  the  Vendee.  But  go  light 
on  it:  it's  tricky!" 

The  workers,  stupid  with  the  heat,  poured  down 
this  delightful  little  white  wine  as  if  it  were  tenth 
rate  claret.  Dam  took  alarm  and  cautioned  the 
women : 

"That's  enough,  take  it  away,  or  they  won't  finish 
their  work." 

The  women  went  away,  taking  along  the  half 
emptied  bottles.  They  passed  through  the  barn 
where  Boiseriot  and  Trooper,  exhausted  and  black 
of  face,  were  lolling  on  the  cool  earthen  floor.  Bois- 
eriot tasted  the  wine. 

"Here,"  said  he,  "that's  the  right  stuff!" 

The  women  left  them  a  full  bottle.  Trooper 
drank  and  smacked  his  lips. 

"Yes ! — it  picks  a  fellow  up,  this  does !" 

His  head  was  hot  and  he  laughed  with  content- 
ment, bottle  in  hand,  instantly  rested. 

"By  golly,  Boiseriot !  Samuel  is  a  poor  specimen 
of  a  liar;  wine  is  better  than  water! —  I've  a  good 
mind  to  finish  the  bottle." 

The  man  looked  at  him  sideways  with  his  guileful 
eyes: 

"Finish  the  bottle!  You're  not  up  to  it!  It 
would  knock  you  over." 

Trooper  fell  into  the  trap;  he  couldn't  pass  by 
such  a  challenge  from  a  Catholic ! 


86  N  E  N  E 

"Go  along!"  he  said,  disdainfully,  "I'm  not  a 
weakling,  I  could  drink  ten  bottles  .  .  .  like  this, 
see!" 

He  stretched  himself  flat  on  his  back  and,  hold- 
ing the  bottle  high,  let  the  wine  gurgle  slowly  down 
his  throat. 

"Oof!    It's  gone!    Did  you  see?" 

Boiseriot  got  on  his  feet.  Being  called  back  to 
the  machine  just  then,  they  returned  to  their  posts. 

The  noise  had  begun  again.  The  straw  passers 
howled  boisterously.  Others  were  calling  to  each 
other  in  harsh  tones.  Two  of  the  older  men  were 
having  a  quarrel :  it  had  started  with  a  religious  dis- 
cussion, and  now  they  were  digging  up  old  and 
buried  differences.  They  hurled  insults  at  each  other 
and  would  have  come  to  blows  if  there  had  been 
time. 

At  the  feeding  shelf  Trooper  was  handling  the 
sheaves  with  quick  movements.  The  fumes  of  the 
wine  had  begun  to  muddle  his  head.  He  had  thrown 
away  his  cap;  the  sun,  beating  down  on  his  head, 
finished  the  confusion  of  his  brain. 

The  machine  stopped,  choked  off.  Trooper  had 
thrown  two  tangled  sheaves  into  it,  at  one  thrust. 

All  around  mocking  laughter  arose,  and  shouts  of 
derision.  Trooper,  busy  cleaning  the  maws  of  the 
thresher,  straightened  with  an  oath,  ready  for  a 
quarrel.  Seeing  this,  the  others  mocked  him  only 
the  louder,  using  their  hands  as  megaphones. 


N  E  N  E  87 

"It's  the  big  one !    Booh !    Booh !" 

Four  Catholics  called  down  from  above,  to  egg 
him  on : 

"Trooper,  you're  losing  your  belt!  Trooper, 
you're  wanted  in  the  kitchen!  Go  and  wipe  the 
kids'  noses !  That's  all  you're  fit  for !" 

Boiseriot  laughed  as  he  pulled  out  the  final  fist- 
fuls  of  straw.  At  last  the  thresher  began  to  turn 
again. 

Trooper  was  white  with  rage.  He  had  heard  some 
one  say,  near  the  winnower :  "The  little  fellow  feeds 
better!"  and  to  his  muddled  mind  this  calm  state- 
ment was  a  greater  insult  than  the  mockery  of  the 
men  up  there,  stacking  the  straw. 

"I  don't  think  so :  the  big  one  can  put  it  all  over 
him,  shoving  in  the  straw." 

All  around  the  winnower  they  were  now  discussing 
the  work  of  these  two.  The  discussion  soon  involved 
everybody  and  the  old  rivalry  came  to  the  fore  again, 
the  Catholics  supporting  Boiseriot,  the  Dissenters 
Trooper. 

The  two  men,  hearing  all  this,  no  longer  looked  at 
each  other.  Bent  over  the  feeding  shelf,  they  worked 
furiously.  Boiseriot  was  the  more  skilful ;  he  threw 
out  his  hands  with  the  agility  of  a  cat.  Every  one 
of  his  thrusts  was  precise,  sent  the  straw  just  far 
enough  so  it  could  be  caught  by  the  machine.  He 
wasn't  even  sweating;  with  his  cap  drawn  over  his 
ears,  he  did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  aware  of  the  heat. 


88  N  E  N  E 

Trooper  worked  as  if  he  were  fighting.  Rage 
dominated  him,  the  drunken  rage  of  his  nights  of 
dissipation.  The  blood  had  rushed  to  his  head, 
driving  out  all  his  normal  instincts,  which  were  gen- 
tle and  sensible.  His  jaw  set,  his  eyes  wild,  he 
shook  all  over  with  an  uncontrolled  fury  against 
Boiseriot,  against  the  Catholics,  against  the  machine, 
against  the  straw,  against  everything !  Throwing  his 
whole  weight  forward,  he  swept  the  shelf  with 
wrathful  arms. 

"The  little  fellow  feeds  better!  By  golly,  I'll 
show  them !  Damn  them !" 

He  shouted: 

"Bring  on  the  sheaves !    Bring  'em  on !" 

The  band  cutters  pushed  the  sheaves  toward  him, 
and  he,  with  every  ounce  of  his  strength,  thrust  his 
great  arms  at  the  gaping  maw 

"Ha-a-a!" 

There  was  a  cracking  of  bones.  The  engineer 
jumped  wild-eyed  to  the  control  lever  to  stop  the 
machine.  All  the  workers,  whether  singing  or  quar- 
relling, those  on  the  stacks,  those  on  the  ladders, 
those  at  the  sheaves, — all  stood  stock  still,  hands 
raised  high,  a  cry  of  terror  strangled  in  their  throats. 

On  the  hopper  shelf  lay  Trooper,  face  down;  the 
machine  had  bitten  off  one  of  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THEY  had  taken  him  to  the  hospital  where  they 
had  cut  away  all  that  the  machine  had  left  of 
his  right  arm.    When  he  had  recovered  consciousness 
he  had  said  to  the  doctors : 

VYou'd  have  done  better  to  finish  me  off —  You 
don't  think  I'm  going  to  go  on  living  like  this*?" 

For  three  days  after,  he  had  led  them  a  terrible 
dance,  yelling  savagely  and  without  once  stopping: 

"I'll  kill  myself !    I'll  kill  myself !" 

But  these  evil  thoughts  left  him  when  his  tem~ 
perature  came  down ;  now  he  was  a  very  meek,  very 
gentle  patient,  who  wasn't  getting  well  quickly,  how- 
ever, because  his  spirits  were  so  crushed.  The  fright- 
ful wound  had  almost  drained  him  of  his  blood.  He 
lay  there,  as  white  as  the  sheets,  and  when  he  raised 
his  head  his  blue  eyes  rolled  in  their  sockets  from 
weakness. 

His  mother  had  come  to  see  him,  as  had  his  sister 
Fridoline,  and  his  employer,  Rivard.  But  these  first 
visits  had  so  exhausted  him  that  the  doctors  had 
given  orders  to  admit  no  one  else.  However,  on  the 
second  Saturday  they  let  Madeleine  pass  in  and  a 
nurse  led  her  along  the  corridors  whose  unbroken 
whiteness  sent  a  chill  through  her.  Madeleine 
stepped  softly  behind  the  silent  nurse  and  mumbled : 

89 


90  N  E  N  E 

"It's  a  house  of  death—  Poor  big  brother,  how 
I  wish  you  were  out  of  here !" 

When  the  nurse  had  shown  her  into  the  patient's 
room,  she  felt  on  the  point  of  fainting.  He  had 
quickly  drawn  up  the  sheet  to  hide  his  mutilated 
shoulder  and  his  eyes  tried  to  smile  at  her  from  out 
his  bloodless  face. 

She  kissed  him  and  for  a  long  moment  they  looked 
at  each  other  in  silence.  Then,  in  an  effort  to  keep 
down  the  wave  of  feeling  that  threatened  to  over- 
come her,  she  said: 

"I  think  you're  looking  fine,  considering —  You'll 
soon  be  all  right  again,  Trooper." 

He  repeated  very  gently : 

"Sister,  call  me  John.  Ever  since  I  was  a  little 
shaver  I've  been  called  by  that  boastful  nickname 
because  I  was  so  big  and  strong;  but  now  my  strength 
is  gone  and  it'll  never  come  back.  I'm  not  complain- 
ing; it's  my  own  fault." 

"Not  at  all !  It  isn't  your  fault.  What  is  to  be 
will  be — things  are  written  a  long  time  ahead." 

"Yes — you're  a  good  soul.  You  are  the  best  of 
them  all —  If  you  could  stay  here  I'd  get  well 
sooner." 

With  his  left  hand,  which  had  grown  white  and 
thin,  he  took  one  of  hers  and  played  with  her  fingers. 

A  little  colour  came  into  his  cheeks;  he  looked  as 
if  he  were  hunting  for  the  right  words  to  frame  a 
daring  request. 


NENE  91 

"Madeleine,  I  want  to  tell  you  something —  I've 
been  waiting  for  you  so  impatiently  and  I'm  glad 
you  came  just  to-day —  There's  something  I  want 
to  say  to  you  that  I  couldn't  say  to  anybody  else — 
Madeleine,  at  Chantepie  there's  a  girl  whom  I've 
loved  with  all  my  heart  for  a  long  time." 

"Violette,  the  dressmaker?  Were  you  thinking  I 
didn't  know  it?" 

"Yes,  Violette — a  tall  girl,  with  eyes  just  the  re- 
verse of  yours." 

Madeleine  laughed. 

"A  pretty  girl,  then!  But  you  needn't  tell  me 
what  she's  like;  I  know  her.  I  saw  her  two  years 
ago,  at  the  Chantepie  fair." 

He  fell  back  into  despondency. 

"It's  two  years  to-morrow,  as  you  say — since  I 
spoke  to  her  for  the  first  time.  I  was  to  go  there 
again  this  year,  to  the  fair,  and  she  was  to  look  for 
me.  She  loves  me  a  lot,  and  I  know  she's  worrying 
herself  sick  about  me  now.  Madeleine,  I  want  her 
to  know  how  much  I've  been  thinking  of  her  on  my 
bed  of  pain." 

"But  don't  you  see,  I  couldn't  possibly  manage 
to  go  to  Chantepie,  on  account  of  the  children  at 
home." 

"I've  thought  of  that —  I've  asked  the  nurse 
politely  for  a  sheet  of  note  paper  and  she  gave  me 
one.  Here  it  is." 


92  N  E  N  E 

He  hunted  under  his  bolster  and  handed  to  Made- 
leine a  pencil  and  a  crumpled  envelop. 

"Please  put  it  down  that  she's  not  to  worry — that 
if  I  could  only  know  that  she's  in  good  health  and 
spirits,  it  would  be  balm  to  my  heart." 

Madeleine  had  taken  the  pencil,  but  she  turned 
her  eyes  away  so  that  her  brother  might  not  see  the 
pity  that  had  welled  up  in  them. 

Poor  fellow!  How  he  loved  this  Catholic  girl 
whom  Madeleine  and  her  mother  distrusted!  She 
was  far  from  worrying!  She  hadn't  even  once  in- 
quired about  him,  and  if  the  accident  to  her  be- 
trothed had  given  her  a  shock,  she  certainly  hadn't 
shown  it. 

As  if  this  mutilation  wasn't  enough,  nor  the 
wretchedness  against  which  he  would  now  have  to 
struggle  all  his  life  long! —  On  top  of  all  he'd 
have  to  carry  a  heavy  heart,  too!  How  difficult 
life  was! 

"Poor  big  brother !  You  ought  not  to  tire  your- 
self thinking  such  things  .  .  .  Wait  a  few  days — 
When  you're  stronger." 

But  he  said  with  a  pleading  look : 

"No,  Madeleine! — right  away,  please!  Here, 
take  this  tray  to  write  on,  so  I  can  watch  you  do 
it." 

She  placed  the  paper  where  he  wanted  it  and 
began,  submitting  every  sentence  to  him. 

"My  dear  Violette : 


N  E  N  E  93 

"I  cannot  write  you  with  my  own  hand  oil  account 
of  the  calamity  which  has  fallen  on  me.  I  am  hav- 
ing these  words  set  down  for  me  by  a  serious  person 
from  whom  we  need  not  fear  any  gossip.  Violette, 
I  have  suffered  very  much,  but  I  have  always  had 
you  before  my  eyes,  even  when  it  was  worst." 

"Say  that  I'm  counting  on  us  getting  married 
soon.  The  Insurance  Company  will  pay  me  an  in- 
come— that's  what  the  doctor  says — and  as  soon  as 
I'm  on  my  feet  again  I'll  get  a  Government  job." 

"Oh!  That's  good  news,"  said  Madeleine;  "I'm 
right  glad.  Then  I'll  put  down :  'I  think  we'll  have 
a-plenty  for  getting  our  household  things  with 
what ' " 

"No!  no!  don't  say  that!  I  don't  want  you  to 
tell  her —  Just  say  that  I  haven't  changed  my  mind." 

So  she  wrote : 

"My  intentions  toward  you  are  the  same,  for  my 
heart  will  never  change.  If  you  like,  we  can  be 
married  right  soon " 

She  added,  however: 

" — as  soon  as  I  am  able  to  earn  my  own  living 
and  yours,  which  will  not  be  long,  you  may  hope 
and  trust." 

They  finished  the  letter  with  this : 

"My  dear  Violette,  I  don't  want  you  to  grieve  on 
my  account.  To-morrow  is  the  day  of  the  Chantepie 
Fair :  I  want  you  to  go  out  as  usual.  If  I  could  know 
that  you  were  laughing  and  having  a  good  time  with 


94  N  E  N  E 

the  other  girls  of  your  age,  I  should  be  very  glad. 

"My  dear  Violette,  you  can  write  to  me  by  the 
name  of  John  Clarandeau,  at  the  hospital.  I  kiss 
you  in  thought  as  I  kissed  you  the  first  time,  two 
years  ago  to-morrow,  the  day  of  the  Fair  at  your 
place.  And  I  sign  myself " 

He  took  the  pencil  and  traced  his  name  labour- 
iously,  stopping  at  each  letter.  Then  his  head  fell 
back  on  the  pillow,  still  paler  for  the  exertion. 

Madeleine  wrote  the  address: 

"To  Mademoiselle, 
Mademoiselle  Violette  Ouvrard, 

Dressmaker  at  Chantepie." 

"Put  'personal'  so  that  the  postman  won't  give  it 
to  anybody  else —  That's  right  .  .  .  Thank  you. 
— Now  don't  forget  to  put  it  in  the  box  right  away. 
— I'm  real  glad  you  came  to-day!" 

The  nurse  opened  the  door : 

"There's  too  much  talking  in  here;  that's  enough 
for  to-day." 

"You're  right,"  said  Madeleine,  "I'm  going.  I'll 
come  again." 

As  she  went  out  he  called  to  her  again,  his  whole 
being  in  upheaval: 

"Don't  forget  now! — as  soon  as  you're  out- 
side  " 

Madeleine  mailed  the  poor  letter  without  delay 
and  it  got  to  Chantepie  on  Sunday  morning,  as  it 
should. 


CHAPTER  XV 

VIOLETTE  was  sewing  at  her  mother's  house. 
She  was  making  a  waist  to  wear  at  the  Fair, 
with  the  model  before  her,  in  a  catalogue  from 
Paris. 

This  year,  the  city  fashion  demanded  a  rather  low 
neckline;  and  Violette  was  trying  to  impose  it  on 
the  village  of  Chantepie,  where  some  of  the  girls 
were  very  dressy. 

For  herself  she  had  chosen  an  extreme  model,  cut 
in  a  low  point  in  front.  Still,  she  hesitated  to  cut 
so  boldly  into  the  goods. 

The  postman  opened  the  door: 

"Mademoiselle  Violette!  'personal/  A  love  let- 
ter, my  pretty !" 

She  did  not  reply,  merely  looking  at  the  curious 
address,  penciled  in  a  strange  handwriting. 

As  soon  as  the  postman  had  gone  she  tore  the 
envelope  open.  At  the  first  lines,  something  like  pity 
came  into  her  eyes  for  the  handsome  young  fellow 
whose  love  had  flattered  her  vanity  and  who  was  now 
damaged  forever. 

But  it  was  only  a  flicker.  Behind  her  red  lip  a 
sharp  tooth  gleamed.  Would  she  go  out?  Would 
she  go  to  the  Fair  with  the  other  girls'?  Really  now, 

95 


96  NENE 

what  a  fool  he  was !    It  was  getting  to  be  ridiculous ! 
She  shook  her  brown  head,  bristling  with  curl 
papers,  and  mumbled: 

"For  one  that's  lost — there'll  be  two  found." 
And  as,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  she  was  experienced  \ 
in  the  ways  of  men  and  knew  full  well  what  bait 
they  liked  best,  she  bent  over  the  basted  blouse  and, 
with  two  strokes  of  the  scissors,  cut  a  deeper  V  than  . 
the  one  in  the  catalogue. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AT  the  Moulinettes,  the  accident  on  threshing 
day  had  spread  a  veil  of  sadness  over  every- 
body. When  Madeleine  gave  news  of  her  brother 
to  the  farm  folk  and  the  neighbours  who  came  to  in- 
quire, a  deep  pity  rang  through  the  words  they 
exchanged. 

Even  Boiseriot  turned  pale  at  such  times,  and 
although  he  had  witnessed  the  accident  he  disliked 
to  tell  about  it.  But  he  was  too  fundamentally  evil 
to  have  a  clean  heart  about  it ;  his  pity  was  nothing 
more  than  a  skein  of  thread  tangled  all  over  a  thorn 
bush.  Perhaps  he  felt  a  vague  remorse,  or  rather 
the  fear  of  having  committed  a  sin  so  grievous  that 
no  amount  of  penance  could  free  him  of  it;  hi  any 
case  there  was  a  sense  of  satisfied  vengeance  mingled 
with  the  other. 

The  doctor  still  encouraged  Trooper's  hopes  about 
the  Insurance  Company's  payment  to  him  and  the 
Government  job  he  would  get  when  he  would  be 
on  his  feet  again.  Madeleine  never  doubted  that 
these  promises  were  on  the  point  of  fulfillment  and 
talked  freely  about  it.  But  Michael  struck  a  note 
of  skepticism — very  gently  and  cautiously,  so  as  not 
to  sadden  her  prematurely. 

97 


98  N  E  N  E 

"He  drank  a  whole  bottle  just  before  going  back 
to  the  machine. — It's  a  known  fact — and  they'll 
make  the  most  of  it.  As  for  a  Government  job " 

He  made  a  vague  motion  of  the  hand,  not  wishing 
to  speak  out  before  Boiseriot  who,  being  on  the 
priests'  side,  did  not  vote  for  Michael's  side  at  elec- 
tions. 

Madeleine  listened,  surprised  at  the  unusual  gen- 
tleness of  his  manner  and  speech.  She  felt  instinc- 
tively that  he  talked  to  her  in  this  way  so  as  to  avoid 
shocking  her  sorrow,  and  she  was  grateful  to  him 
for  it. 

She  was  grateful,  too,  for  his  considerateness,  his 
eagerness  to  arrange  for  her  trips  to  the  hospital  hi 
town.  He  had  said  to  her : 

"Any  time  you  feel  like  going  to  see  your  brother, 
just  go  and  never  mind  about  the  work." 

Michael  was  no  longer  the  moody  young  master 
with  the  hard  and  restless  eyes.  His  passionate  out- 
burst had  quite  passed  over  and  he  talked  now  like 
a  good,  sensible  comrade  with  a  calm,  even  temper. 

Madeleine  liked  him  better  this  way.  And  in 
spite  of  his  words  that  she  could  not  forget,  there 
still  lived  in  her  heart  a  quiet  hope  that  fanned  it 
like  a  lazy  summer  breeze  following  after  a  devastat- 
ing storm.  Later — who  could  tell1? — the  thing  she 
must  not  even  think  of  for  the  present  might  come  to 
pass,  bit  by  bit. 

She  said  to  herself: 


N  E  N  E  99 

"And  to  think  that  I  was  going  to  leave — like  a 
stubborn  fool ! —  If  I'd  run  off  like  that,  right  away, 
without  thinking,  where  would  I  be  now*?  What 
would  I  do  without  Lalie  and  Jo*?  I'm  sure  I 
couldn't  get  used  to  doing  without  them." 

Her  affection  for  the  children  had,  indee3,  grown 
wonderfully  vigilant. 

She  was  fond  of  her  mother,  of  her  sister,  of 
Michael — she  was  quite  overcome  by  her  brother's 
calamity.  On  the  other  hand  there  were  those 
whom  she  detested  or  distrusted.  Pictures  sweet  or 
sad  came  to  her  mind  and  passed  away,  following 
each  other  like  travellers  at  an  inn.  But  for  Lalie 
and  Jo  the  table  was  always  set.  Theirs  was  the 
softest,  warmest  corner,  stuffed  with  fine  wool, — 
and  never,  never  should  they  leave  it ! 

She  herself  was  amazed  at  it. 

"My  darlings,  you  give  me  a  lot  of  trouble  and 
yet  there's  none  but  you !" 

Whether  she  was  in  the  house  with  them,  or  at  her 
washing,  or  at  chapel,  her  mind  was  always  busy 
thinking  up  things  for  them. 

"I'll  put  a  blue  ribbon  in  Lalie's  hair  .  .  .  She's 
pale;  she's  growing  too  fast;  I'll  make  some  rust- 
water  to  pick  her  up.  Jo  likes  to  hit  me  on  the 
head.  I'll  play  with  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
every  morning  .  .  .  I'll  just  get  up  a  little 
earlier." 

She  wanted  them  to  be  as  happy  as  if  their 


ioo  NENE 

mother  were  alive.  Her  love  for  them  made  her 
clever  and  ingenious.  She  who  could  only  do  coarse 
knitting  had  learned  a  pretty  crochet  stitch  and  made 
for  each  of  them  a  warm  sweater  of  blue  wool,  for 
winter. 

On  Sundays  she  dressed  Lalie's  doll  and  made 
whips  of  braided  strips  of  birchbark  for  the  baby,  or 
else  little  rush  chairs.  She  also  taught  Lalie  her 
prayers  and  the  names  of  the  days  and  counting  on 
her  fingers. 

The  little  girl  never  left  her  any  more  than  her 
own  shadow.  Jo,  too,  tried  his  best  to  follow  her 
around;  if  she  left  him  behind  in  the  barnyard  or 
in  the  garden,  he  caught  up  with  her  on  the  door- 
step and  jumped  at  her  skirts  with  a  yell  that  he 
meant  to  scare  her. 

He  was  a  little  slow  in  learning  to  talk.  He  was 
always  trying  to  say  everything  at  once  and  when 
he  came  to  a  difficult  word,  he  got  all  mixed  up, 
either  bursting  out  laughing  or  stamping  his  feet  in 
a  temper,  just  as  he  happened  to  feel. 

He  could  say  'papa'  and  'Lalie,'  but  'Madeleine' 
was  too  long  for  him  even  to  attempt.  But  one  day 
he  began  to  call  out:  "Nene — Nene — Nene!" 

Madeleine  lifted  him  to  the  height  of  her  face  in 
a  burst  of  gladness.  And  then,  all  at  once,  a  thought 
came  to  her;  a  cruel  thought  that  drove  the  blood 
from  her  heart.  Nene !  It  was  indeed  the  abbrevia- 


NENE  101 

tion  of  her  name,  but  it  was  also  an  abbreviation  of 
another  name  to  which  she  was  not  entitled. 

At  Chantepie  as  at  Saint-Ambroise  and  all  about, 
"Nene"  was  short  for  marraine,  or  godmother.  It 
was  the  everyday  word,  used  by  young  and  old  alike. 

Jo's  real  'Nene'  was  Georgette,  Michael's  sister- 
in-law,  whose  name  was  never  mentioned  in  the 
house  and  whose  place  Madeleine  had  taken. 

"Nene!    Nene!" 

The  name  stirred  Madeleine  as  did  that  other 
name  that  was  too  sweet  and  forbidden.  It  gave  her 
the  same  rapture,  and  she  hugged  the  child  to  her 
breast  passionately. 

"I  don't  know,  my  baby  Jo,  if  I  ought  to  let  you 
say  that." 

That  very  evening  she  spoke  to  old  Corbier,  not 
daring  to  speak  about  it  to  Michael. 

'There's  something  on  my  mind — it's  about  the 
baby.  He's  calling  me  'Nene,'  the  darling.  ...  I 
don't  know  if  you'll  like  it,  nor  his  father  either. 
...  If  you  don't  maybe  I  can  make  him  say  my 
name  some  other  way." 

She  was  sitting  in  a  dark  corner  and  the  old  man 
could  not  see  her  anxious  face  nor  her  eyes  brim- 
ming with  tears;  but  he  felt  the  quaver  in  her  voice 
and  answered  soothingly : 

"You're  worrying  over  a  trifle,  my  dear  girl. 
What  does  it  matter  whether  you're  'Nene'  or 
'Madeleine"?  If  you  are  good  to  him  that's  all  that 


102  N  E  N  E 

matters,  and  when  he's  grown  he'll  know  how  you 
took  the  place  of  the  other  two." 

"That's  my  highest  hope — I'm  not  asking  for 
more!"  she  said,  and  ran  away. 

From  that  day  on  she  was  Nene  for  Jo,  and  for 
Lalie  too. 

All  day  long  the  name  rang  out,  and  it  brought 
a  breath  of  sweetness  into  the  house.  The  baby 
lips  gave  it  a  caressing  sound,  like  the  twitter  of  a 
bird.  They  called  it  out  in  joy  as  in  trouble.  It 
grew  to  be  the  last  resort  and  appeal  to  a  protector 
who  was  infinitely  strong  and  infinitely  kind. 

Michael  had  made  no  objection;  he  even  fell  into 
saying,  when  Lalie  pestered  him  with  questions: 

"Don't  bother  me;  ask  Nene." 

For  this  Madeleine  forgave  him  quite  all  of  his 
past  harshness. 

She  felt  that  she  wasn't  treated  as  a  servant,  hum- 
ble girl  that  she  was,  used  to  hiring  out  her  arms  here 
and  there,  as  need  befell,  among  the  tillers  of  the 
soil.  By  the  grace  of  the  children  she  had  become 
the  active  soul  of  the  house,  the  one  who  watched 
and  held  all  together. 

Michael  no  longer  thought  of  protesting.  Though 
the  picture  of  Marguerite  was  always  within  him, 
alive  and  unconquered,  another  picture  was  there 
too  now,  and  growing  from  day  to  day,  so  that  he 
felt  himself  held  in  a  grip  that  was  at  once  firm  and 
gentle. 


N  E  N  E  103 

Winter  had  come  with  its  long,  empty  evenings. 
Boiseriot  went  to  bed  early,  and  Gideon  was  gad- 
ding about  at  the  young  people's  parties  in  the  vil- 
lages round  about. 

Old  man  Corbier  went  to  sleep  in  his  arm  chair 
right  after  supper,  so  that  Michael  was  left  to  sit 
up  alone  with  his  housekeeper. 

His  physical  agitation  had  quieted  down  and 
those  bad  dreams  were  no  more  troubling  him.  He 
looked  with  calmness  at  Madeleine  as  she  sat  sew- 
ing under  the  lamp,  with  the  light  full  on  the  blonde 
nape  of  her  neck.  Sometimes  she  worked  away  at 
the  spinning  wheel,  after  lowering  the  lamp,  for 
economy.  They  talked  very  little ;  no  sound  but  the 
hum  of  the  spindle.  Now  and  then  Madeleine  got 
up  and  tip-toed  to  the  cradle.  And  in  a  minute  the 
wheel  was  turning  again. 

Michael  thought: 

"Women,  nowadays,  whether  mistress  or  maid, 
don't  find  time  for  spinning.  Maybe  they  don't 
want  to.  They  aren't  brave  as  they  used  to  be;  my 
father  says  they  aren't,  and  so  do  the  other  old  fel- 
lows. That's  their  way  of  getting  back  at  the  young 
ones,  but  perhaps  they  are  right,  all  the  same.  A 
thrifty  woman  means  a  good  deal  to  a  household — 
everything  to  mine.  She's  like  a  spring  shower  on 
a  dry  meadow.  If  my  house  had  remained  disorgan- 
ised as  it  was,  before  long  my  children  would  have 
gone  to  ruin.  I  must  consider  them.  .  .  .  They're 


104  NENE 

as  sheltered  as  chicks  in  a  warming  pan.  .  .  .  It's 
got  to  keep  on  like  this.  Life  isn't  just  the  pleasures 
of  youth.  I'm  past  thirty;  and  that's  the  age  of 
reason. 

"If  I  were  to  make  up  my  mind,  it  wouldn't  be 
anything  like  the  first  time.  Then  I  was  twenty-four 
and  the  world  shone  like  a  lighted  chapel  .  .  .  Now 
all  the  candles  are  out! —     Still,  a  man  must  go 
trudging  on.     You  can't  always  have  a  brush  fire^ 
to  warm  your  hands  by — a  little  heap  of  embersy 
helps  to  pass  the  evening.    If  I  were  to  make  up  my 
mind  I  might  be  doing  a  right  and  sensible  thing." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AT  Christmas  Boiseriot  went  to  confession.  He 
went  to  the  parish  priest  at  St.-Ambroise  who 
was  known  to  lead  in  the  fight  against  the  Dissent- 
ers. After  confessing  the  ordinary  trifles,  he  came 
to  the  things  that  really  mattered ;  but,  for  prudence, 
he  poured  them  all  out  in  a  bunch,  very  quickly, 
without  details.  The  priest  did  not  press  him. 

He  wasn't  a  bad  man,  this  parish  priest, — but 
overzealous  and  too  eager  to  bring  back  to  the  fold 
all  these  Dissenters  who  were,  after  all,  only  the  very 
best  strayed  sheep. 

His  penitent,  who  accused  himself  of  wanting  to 
marry  a  Dissenter — for  he  was  careful  to  say 
"marry" — did  not  seem  to  him  very  guilty.  It 
might  mean  another  one  won  over,  another  one  to  be 
baptised  solemnly,  one  Sunday  in  the  month  of 
Mary.  As  for  having  been  a  little  quarrelsome,  for 
the  glory  of  the  Church,  on  threshing  day,  and  hav- 
ing wished  evil  on  one  of  her  detractors,  that  showed 
hotheadedness,  no  doubt,  but  also  a  fine,  firm  faith. 

So  Boiseriot  left  the  confessional  all  straightened 
out,  and  went  back  to  the  Moulinettes  as  ha'ppy  as 
a  first  communicant. 

Madeleine  had  also  gone  to  St.-Ambroise  that  day 
105 


io6  NENE 

She  had  brought  back,  for  Lalie  and  Jo,  a  couple  of 
oranges  and  a  loaf  of  baker's  bread.  Coming  in, 
Boiseriot  saw  the  basket  standing  open  on  the  table ; 
impudently,  he  cornered  Madeleine  in  the  hall : 

"Stupid,  save  your  pennies,  anyhow !  You  could 
buy  a  whole  bushel  of  oranges  and  a  bagful  of  short- 
bread for  his  kids, — that  wouldn't  get  him  to  make 
you  the  real  mistress  of  the  house  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world! —  Listen!  If  you'd  only " 

She  cut  him  short  by  pushing  him  out  of  doors. 
But  he  came  back  to  his  point  on  the  following  days. 
He  found  ways  of  cornering  her  in  the  barn,  in  the 
lean-to,  even  in  the  house;  and  more  than  once  she 
was  thankful  for  being  so  strong  that  she  had  noth- 
ing to  fear  from  a  weakling  like  him. 

One  Sunday  in  January  he  met  her  on  the  road  to 
St.-Ambroise  and  walked  along  with  her.  The  road 
was  straight  and  dotted  with  people  on  their  way 
to  mass  or  to  rosary  prayers.  She  did  not  want  to 
push  him  out  of  her  way  in  sight  of  so  many  neigh- 
bours and  therefore  had  to  listen  to  his  vile  pro- 
posals and  his  threats.  She'd  yield  to  him  or  he'd 
set  all  the  young  fellows  of  the  countryside  on  her 
— ajid  who'd  defend  her  now  that  her  brother  was 
crippled? 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  others 
along  the  road,  she  drove  him  away,  throwing  stones 
at  him. 

From  that  day  on  he  cooked  up  his  revenge. 


N  E  N  E  107 

He  thought  Gideon  would  be  a  perfect  tool  for 
his  evil  work  and  he  began  moulding  the  boy's  mind 
to  his  purpose,  furbishing  it,  whetting  it  like  a  prun- 
ing hook. 

Gideon,  like  himself,  was  hired  up  to  the  first  of 
March.  Boiseriot  had  agreed  to  stay  on  another 
year,  but  the  boy  had  not  yet  renewed  his  contract 
with  Corbier  and  likely  he'd  be  leaving  in  a  few 
weeks.  He  wanted  a  hundred  francs  increase  for 
the  coming  year  and  Michael  was  not  disposed 
to  give  him  as  much  as  that.  Gideon  was 
neither  very  handy  nor,  above  all,  very  biddable. 
While  he  did  what  he  was  told  to  do,  he  was  never 
in  a  hurry  about  it  and  his  first  impulse  was  to  do 
the  reverse  of  what  he  was  told.  Moreover,  while 
he  wasn't  exactly  lazy,  still  he  lost  a  lot  of  time 
dawdling,  his  youthful  mind  finding  a  thousand 
things  of  interest  by  the  wayside. 

Boiseriot  began  to  rouse  him  against  Michael  hi 
a  round-about  way,  so  the  boy  wouldn't  see  his 
purpose. 

When  Michael  grumbled  because  some  piece  of 
work  was  badly  done,  Boiseriot  would  say  to 
Gideon : 

"Let  him  do  it  himself — he'll  see  if  it  is  easy!" 
or  "Aren't  you  getting  sick  of  it  yet?  For  my  part, 
I've  never  let  anybody  pester  me  about  the  way  I  do 
my  work. —  You  don't  like  it?  All  right!  Good- 


io8  N  E  N  E 

bye ! —  If  I  were  you  I'd  get  out  of  here  the  minute 
my  time  was  up." 

Gideon  had  received  many  a  worse  scolding  with- 
out bearing  Corbier  any  grudge  for  it;  but,  feeling 
the  lash  of  the  whip,  he  burst  out : 

"Gosh  darn  it !  sure,  I'm  going  to  get  out !  And 
I'll  be  jiggered  if  I'm  ever  sorry  I  quit!" 

Boiseriot  nodded  approvingly: 

"And  it's  saying  no  more  than  the  truth,  poor 
boy — he's  led  you  a  pretty  rotten  life !" 

When  he  was  satisfied  that  Gideon  had  quite  made 
up  his  mind  to  leave,  he  began  to  talk  about  Made- 
leine. 

"With  Lent  coming,  when  the  beasts  are  better  fed 
than  the  men,  it's  a  good  idea  to  change  cooks.  This 
one  here,  she  eats  the  pork  and  leaves  us  the  cab- 
bage." 

He  made  the  boy  laugh  with  funny  remarks  about 
her.  With  that  big  bosom  of  hers,  she  must  have 
smothered  all  her  lovers  .  .  . 

"No  ...  not  all,  though!  .  .  .  She's  still  got 
one  left  .  .  ." 

"And  who's  that*?"  asked  the  boy,  turning  from 
his  work  the  better  to  listen. 

"Well,  now  ...  I  guess  you're  too  young  to 
hear  such  things." 

Between  his  teeth  he  added,  pretending  to  be 
scandalised : 


NENE  109 

"It's  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  .  .  .  such  goings- 
on!  .  .  ." 

But  Gideon  couldn't  be  set  against  Madeleine  so 
easily,  for  several  reasons. 

When  Boiseriot  at  last  spat  out  the  worst  of  his 
insinuations,  the  lad  protested  loudly : 

"No!  That  isn't  true!  You're  trying  to  be 
funny!" 

"It  isn't  just  hearsay —  I've  seen  it  myself,  I  tell 
you!" 

It  took  him  several  days  to  convince  the  boy. 
Finally,  one  afternoon,  Boiseriot  thought  he  had 
him  where  he  wanted  him. 

They  had  been  hard  at  work  all  day  and,  this 
being  a  fast  day,  the  soup  was  very  thin.  Moreover, 
Michael  had  stormed  at  Gideon  while  they  were  at 
table.  When  the  two  farm-hands  went  back  to  their 
work  of  cutting  down  a  thorny  hedge,  Gideon  began 
to  voice  his  resentment  more  loudly  than  usual. 

Boiseriot  let  him  go  on  and  then  launched  his 
scheme.  First  he  recounted  everything,  Corbier's 
reprimands,  the  long  weeks  of  Lenten  fasting,  the 
sinful  goings-on  in  the  house, — ending  up,  with  a 
laugh : 

"Really  now — they  deserve  to  have  the  neigh- 
bours sicced  on  them !" 

"I'm  for  it,  damn  it  all !    I'm  game  if  you  are." 

The  boy's  words  were  mere  bravado;  but  the  man 
took  him  up  instantly: 


no  NENE 

"Oh,  I'm  too  old  for  that  kind  of  fun." 

That  put  Gideon,  who  was  by  no  means  slow- 
witted,  on  his  guard.  Boiseriot  continued  in  a  low 
voice,  without  looking  up : 

"Besides,  I'm  going  to  stay  here  while  you're 
going  away  in  ten  days  or  so.  All  you  need  to  do  is 
tell  the  boys  of  your  age  what's  going  on  here ;  they'll 
jump  at  the  chance  of  having  some  fun,  now  that 
the  season  for  your  evening  parties  is  over.  When 
I  was  your  age  I  took  part  in  a  great  mobbing  once. 
That  was  at  Chantepie:  a  cobbler  who'd  played 
truant  with  another  man's  wife.  Ten  or  twelve  of 
us  got  around  to  his  door  every  evening  and  raised 
a  devil  of  a  racket  with  old  kettles,  tin  pans,  buckets, 
anything.  We  forced  him  out  of  the  neighborhood, 
all  right!  I  never  laughed  so  much  in  my  life! — 
Everybody  was  on  our  side.  It'll  be  just  the  same 
here.  It's  wrong  to  let  such  doings  pass  without 
punishment,  and  it's  up  to  you  young  fellows  to 
stop  them." 

Gideon  shook  his  head: 

"No,  no, — it's  none  of  my  business.  Besides, 
there's  the  family  to  think  of " 

"What  family?  The  Clarandeaus?  Fine  family 
that  is!  Don't  you  know  anything  at  all?  The 
youngest  girl  who  was  here  for  the  threshing  last 
year — haven't  you  heard  what's  being  said  *? —  She's 
even  worse  than  her  sister  here,  though  she's  nothing 
but  a  kid  in  years " 


NENE  111 

Gideon,  who  had  been  hacking  away  at  a  haw- 
thorn with  his  priming-hook,  stopped  stock  still: 

"That's  a  lie!" 

So  anxious  was  Boiseriot  to  clinch  the  matter  that 
he  took  no  notice  of  the  boy's  angry  tone  and  ges- 
ture, but  went  on: 

"A  lie*?  Ask  the  boys  at  St.-Ambroise  who 
trailed  her  into  the  Beaufrene  woods,  a  week  ago 
last  Sunday " 

"What's  that  you  say,  Boiseriot?  Just  you  say 
that  again " 

Carried  away  by  the  flood  of  his  hate,  Boiseriot 
could  not  stop. 

"Yes,  in  the  Beaufrene  woods! — and  again  last 
Sunday,  at  the  same  place,  there  were  four  of  them 
with  her! —  Hey,  there!  what's  come  over  you, 
idiot?" 

For  Gideon  had  thrown  away  his  pruning-hook 
and  jumped  at  him. 

"You  damn  cur,  you!  I'll  teach  you  to  invent 
such  lies!  Tiennette,  eh? —  Both  those  Sundays, 
after  prayers,  she  went  a  little  way  out  on  the  Val- 
ley road  and  sat  down  by  the  roadside,  and  I  was 
there  with  her,  if  you  want  to  know !" 

Boiseriot  tried  to  get  away,  but  Gideon  pushed 
him  backward  into  the  hedge.  Holding  him  down 
with  one  hand,  he  belaboured  him  with  the  other, 
on  which  he  was  wearing  a  heavy  leather  glove;  all 
the  while  yelling,  with  tears  of  wrath : 


112  NENE 

"Take  that — and  that! —  So  much  for  your 
dirty  lies! —  Is  that  so*?  Tiennettee  was  in  the 
Beaufrene  woods,  was  she,  you  filthy  liar*?  The 
master  lives  in  sin  with  his  housekeeper,  does  he? — 
And  what's  that  to  you*?  Take  that,  you  liar! — 
I'm  to  sic  the  boys  on  them,  am  I"? —  I'll  sic  them 
on  you ! — damn  your  filthy  hide !" 

When  they  scrambled  to  their  feet  again,  Michael 
was  standing  behind  them.  He  said : 

"Well,  are  you  through*?"  and  to  Boiseriot  he 
added :  "Come  up  to  the  house,  you !" 

Boiseriot  made  a  gesture  of  rage,  but  Michael 
went  on: 

"March  ahead  of  me — right  now!" 

His  tone  was  so  cutting  that  Boiseriot  obeyed,  for 
fear  of  another  trouncing. 

When  he  had  been  paid  off  and  had  packed  his 
belongings,  he  left  the  farm-hands'  lean-to  and 
snooped  back  toward  the  house.  Seeing  that  Michael 
had  gone  out,  he  went  up  to  the  threshold  and  hissed 
between  clenched  teeth: 

"I'm  going —  Good-bye ! —  You've  bitten  me, 
but  I'll  rend  your  flesh!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

pond  of  the  Moulinettes  was  to  be  cleared 
JL  that  year.  According  to  the  terms  of  the  land 
lease,  the  water  was  drawn  off  every  third  year  and 
the  fish  sold.  Half  of  the  profits  went  to  the  farmer, 
the  other  half  to  the  owner,  who  was  likewise  en- 
titled to  a  fine  of  six  carp,  to  be  chosen,  of  course, 
from  among  the  largest. 

On  Shrove  Monday  the  sluice  weir  was  opened. 
The  water  ran  out  through  a  cemented  vent  at  the 
base  of  a  higft  embarkment  and  flowed  in  a  small 
stream  to  spread  itself  over  the  meadows  below.  By 
Monday  evening  the  water  had  not  gone  down  much, 
but  by  Tuesday  morning  a  ring  of  mud  had  become 
visible  and  the  fish  that  lived  around  the  edge  of  the 
pond  were  swimming  about  nervously  and  beating 
the  water  frantically  with  their  tails. 

On  Wednesday  morning  they  began  to  catch  the 
fish.  At  peep  of  dawn  a  caterer  from  Saint- Am- 
broise  arrived  at  the  pond  with  his  paraphernalia. 

Soon  after  him  the  youngsters  of  the  neighbour- 
hood began  to  come;  first  two,  then  another  two, 
then  ten  or  twelve,  until  there  were  some  thirty  of 
them,  boys  and  girls,  all  bundled  up  any  old  way, 
and  their  noses  red  from  the  morning  chill. 

"3 


114  NENE 

The  fish  were  coming  out  now.  The  flow  of  the 
water  carried  them  into  the  "pan,"  a  small,  shallow 
reservoir  that  was  barred  at  the  outlet  by  a  rather 
fine  wire  netting.  The  first  to  reach  the  "pan"  were 
white  bait ;  they  came  on  quickly  in  big  schools,  and 
no  sooner  were  they  in  the  already  troubled  waters 
of  the  "pan"  than  they  seemed  to  realise  that  they 
had  taken  the  wrong  way  and  bent  all  their  efforts 
on  dashing  back  through  the  water  gate.  But  the 
strong  current  carried  them  down  and  they  began  to 
dart  about  desperately.  After  them  came  the  roach, 
then  the  bream.  The  "pan"  was  wonderfully  alive 
and  a-stir.  Innumerable  little  brown  streaks  cut  the 
surface  and  from  time  to  time  a  big  bream  would 
come  up  from  the  bottom  and,  making  a  sharp  turn, 
show  as  wide  and  bright  as  a  pewter  platter. 

At  nine  o'clock  they  started  catching.  Gideon  and 
Alexis,  the  new  hand,  had  big  nets.  Standing  on  the 
brink  of  the  "pan,"  they  kept  plunging  them  in  and 
heaving  them  up,  while  a  man  behind  them  took  the 
fish  they  brought  up  and  dumped  them  into  some 
water-filled  holes  in  the  ground  that  had  been  fixed 
up  to  receive  them. 

Never  had  the  catch  been  so  plenteous;  evem 
Michael  was  astonished.  The  reason  was,  probably, 
that  they  had  succeeded  in  getting  out  all  the  pike 
at  the  last  draining. 

The  youngsters  that  were  hanging  over  the  wire 
netting  shouted:  "There's  some  of  'em  getting 


NENE  115 

away!  The  little  ones  slip  through."  Or  again 
"Hey,  boss!  Didn't  you  see1?  There  were  two  of 
'em  jumped  right  out  of  the  net.  And  there's  a  dead 
one,  floating." 

When  a  fine  bream  leaped  out  of  Gideon's  net  and 
plunged  into  the  water  beyond  the  wire,  a  fat,  red- 
faced  boy  of  ten  made  up  his  mind  all  at  once,  shout- 
ing: 

"Wait  a  minute !    I'll  show  you !" 

He  got  hold  of  a  basket,  rolled  up  his  trouser  legs 
and  jumped  into  the  stream.  At  the  first  sweep  he 
caught  the  bream  and  half  a  dozen  white  bait. 

"Good  boy!"  cried  Michael;  "here,  catch!" 

Across  the  wire  he  emptied  the  last  of  a  netful — 
some  ten  or  twelve  white  bait  that  dropped  into  the 
water  like  sparks  from  a  rocket. 

Then  another  lad  got  into  the  game,  and  still 
another,  and  all  of  them,  or  almost  all.  Every  once 
in  a  while  Michael  threw  them  some  fish  and  they 
waded  about  with  much  shouting,  struggling  with 
their  baskets  and  battling  for  the  best  positions. 

One  little  fellow,  who  had  been  pushed  back,  was 
in  the  water  to  his  belly  and  shivering  with  cold; 
he  was  going  to  climb  out  in  despair,  when  he  caught 
an  enormous  bream.  Scrambling  out,  he  threw  it  on 
the  grass  like  a  quoit. 

"How  are  you  going  to  carry  it?"  asked  Michael. 

"Inside  my  shirt!    I've  got  some  more — see?" 

He  opened  his  shirt  and  showed  two  white  bait 


ii6  NENE 

and  three  or  four  heads  of  roach  that  he  had  snatched 
through  the  wire.  Slipping  the  bream  over  his 
stomach,  he  added:  "It's  like  a  pancake,  only  it 
isn't  hot!" 

From  the  road  by  the  pond  a  woman  called: 

"Federi!" 

It  cut  the  boy's  breath  short : 

"Oh,  the  devil!    There's  Mamma!" 

The  mothers  were,  in  fact,  coming  down,  bringing 
sandwiches  and  clean  jumpers  and  neckties;  for  the 
boys  had  run  off  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  bed, 
without  taking  the  trouble  of  eating  breakfast  or 
dressing  themselves  up. 

When  they  got  sight  of  their  youngsters,  there  was 
a  chorus  of  recrimination,  but  all  the  children  were 
so  absorbed  in  their  fun  that  they  paid  no  attention; 
they  just  stuck,  resigned  to  a  future  boxing  of  ears. 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  real  "gallery"  came 
along. 

The  first  one  was  a  big  fellow  with  a  red  face, 
whose  coming  surprised  no  one.  He  had  been  nick- 
named "the  Otter,"  because  he  came  to  every  pond 
draining,  sometimes  walking  over  ten  miles  to  it, 
just  to  eat  fresh  fish. 

But  how  he  did  eat !  He  was  such  an  extraordin- 
ary glutton  that  the  people  round  about  were  proud 
of  his  prowess.  He  stayed  at  table  for  six  hours  at 
a  stretch,  without  speaking,  without  once  turning 


NENE  117 

his  head,  without  even  stirring  the  tip  of  his  toes — 
just  eating,  eating,  eating. 

Lots  of  people  would  sit  down  opposite  him,  just 
to  see  him  do  away  with  the  fish.  The  ordinary  glut- 
tons hadn't  a  patch  on  him  when  it  came  to  eating 
fish.  He  could  outsit  four  or  five  relays  of  them. 

He  came  straight  to  the  "pan"  and  enquired : 

"Are  the  tench  out  yet?" 

"Not  yet,"  answered  Michael,  "they  are  just 
beginning  to  come." 

"So  much  the  better." 

Without  delay  he  carried  the  news  to  the  caterer. 

"There  are  tench  coming  out  .  .  .  You'd  better 
keep  an  eye  on  them !" 

The  man  was  all  smiles  and  courtesy: 

"I'll  get  them !  .  .  .  But  first  of  all,  let  me  find 
you  a  nice  place  at  table  .  .  .  Here,  won't  you  take 
this  one,  right  in  the  centre"?  .  .  .  that's  where  the 
platter  is  put.  And  listen:  you  know  what's  real 
eating,  you  do  ...  you  give  the  others  an  appe- 
tite ...  I'll  let  you  have  all  you  can  eat  .  .  .  for 
nothing,  you  understand!  All  I  ask  you  is  to  eat, 
eat,  eat!" 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  the  Otter  replied  with  an  honest 
look. 

He  had  hardly  sat  down  when  three  villagers  from 
Saint-Ambroise  settled  themselves  across  the  table 
from  him  and  ordered  a  panful  of  small  fry. 

The  crowd  on  the  embankment  was  thickening. 


ii8  NENE 

All  the  young  people  of  the  countryside  were  there. 
It  was  like  at  the  first  fair  of  the  year.  Fish  dealers 
had  come  out  and  carried  off  the  smaller  fish  and 
farmers'  wives  had  to  hurry  to  get  a  panful  cheap. 

Michael  acted  as  auctioneer.  He  didn't  weigh 
the  fish  but  sold  them  by  the  bulk.  The  women 
crowded  about  and  tried  all  kinds  of  ways  to  be 
served  before  their  turn.  An  old  woman,  among 
the  last  to  arrive,  sneaked  up  to  the  front  and  when 
Michael  brought  out  a  fine  lot  she  pushed  aside  the 
baskets  of  her  neighbours  and  held  out  her  own  with 
the  lid  open,  saying: 

"Here !  put  it  here,  darlin' !" 

And  the  boys  on  the  embankment  took  up  the 
name  and  laughed  as  they  cried  out : 

"Darlin' !    Darlin' !  put  it  here,  darlin' !" 

Michael  raised  his  head.  Just  above  him  was  a 
group  of  girls  and  one  of  them,  tall  and  very  pretty, 
with  flashing  teeth,  was  looking  at  him  boldly. 

"Darlin'!    Darlin'!" 

He  was  ashamed  of  being  so  badly  dressed. 

Now  the  pond  was  nearly  empty.  There  remained 
nothing  but  a  big  black  basin,  fifteen  acres  of  mud 
through  which  wound  a  stream  of  shiny  water.  The 
big  fish  were  coming  out,  enormous  carp  that  had 
to  be  taken  one  at  a  time.  The  two  farm-hands  had 
got  into  the  "pan"  where  they  were  paddling  about, 
with  mud  to  their  ears,  but  enjoying  their  unusual 
occupation. 


NENE  119 

The  eels  were  beginning  to  slip  through  the  mouth 
of  the  sluice,  one  after  the  other ;  but  they  shot  right 
down  into  the  mud,  and  catch  them  there  if  you  can ! 
Anyway,  the  biggest  of  them  remained  in  the  basin; 
you  could  see  some  enormous  fellows  lying  in  the 
mud  almost  anywhere.  There  must  be  some  very 
old  ones  among  them  that  had  never  been  caught  in 
previous  drainings. 

The  watchers  pointed  out  a  huge  one  lying  not 
very  far  from  the  edge,  and  one  of  the  boys  boasted : 

"I  could  get  him  all  right !" 

When  someone  dared  him,  he  made  a  bet. 

"If  you  get  him,"  said  Michael,  "you  can  keep 
him,  and  I'll  give  you  a  franc  piece  to  boot." 

So  the  lad  got  out  of  his  clothes,  slipped  on  an  old 
pair  of  trousers  and  waded  into  the  mud.  Very  soon 
he  was  in  up  to  his  waist;  and,  as  he  wouldn't  turn 
back,  egged  on  by  the  laughing  crowd,  he  finally  fell 
flat  on  his  belly,  unable  to  scramble  up  again. 

The  girls  started  teasing  him: 

"Turn  to  the  right !  .  .  .  Turn  to  the  left !  .  .  . 
He's  caught  like  a  fly  in  a  jug  of  cream!" 

They  had  to  throw  a  rope  to  him  and  dragjiim 
back  over  the  mud  like  a  log.  He  ran  down  the 
meadow  to  wash  up  in  the  stream,  with  all  the  young- 
sters trailing  him. 

"Here's  a  photographer!" 

The  shout  rallied  everybody  instantly.  There  was 
a  man  coming  on  a  tandem  bicycle  with  a  lady  who 


120  NENE 

was  wearing  a  hat.  He  set  up  his  camera  and  tripod 
in  the  meadow,  took  a  peep  under  his  black  cloth, 
made  signs  that  he  wanted  to  speak,  and  the  crowd 
hushed. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  take  a  picture*?" 

"Yes !  yes !  go  ahead !" 

"Well,  then,  you'll  have  to  group  yourselves  a 
little :  some  of  you  up  on  the  embankment  ond  others 
lower  in  the  meadow,  behind  the  fish  catchers." 

They  formed  groups  in  a  flurry  of  excitement  and 
held  their  poses.  But  they  didn't  suit  the  photo- 
grapher, who  came  to  arrange  the  groups  himself. 

"Here,  you !  Come  here,  little  fellow,  get  to  the 
front.  Now,  don't  anybody  move !" 

They  were  too  closely  huddled;  so  the  photo- 
grapher spaced  them  deftly,  like  a  man  sorting 
apples. 

"We  don't  want  to  be  in  it,"  said  Michael. 

"Oh  yes,  you  do,  my  good  man — just  as  you  are; 
I'll  send  you  a  copy  or  two." 

"All  the  same,  we're  ashamed,"  said  Michael. 
"We're  too  dirty  to  be  taken  right  in  the  front  of 
a  picture  of  all  these  fine  folk." 

He  turned  to  look  at  the  people  behind  him. 
There  were  some  hundred  of  them,  all  standing  stiff 
and  trying  to  look  pleasant.  The  mothers'  eyes 
searched  about  for  their  children  in  the  forefront. 
The  young  girls  were  hanging  on  the  arms  of  the 
young  men  as  the  photographer  had  paired  them, 


NENE  121 

according  to  size  and  dress,  without  bothering  which 
fellow  was  courting  which  girl.  But  nobody  dared 
to  protest  for  fear  of  making  the  whole  thing  go 
wrong. 

Standing  in  front  of  the  rest,  about  three  steps 
behind  him,  Michael  saw  the  fine-looking  girl  who 
had  looked  at  him  so  boldly  a  few  minutes  before. 
The  photographer  had  linked  her  arm  in  that  of  the 
baker  from  Saint-Ambroise,  but  she  had  calmly 
withdrawn  it  and  placed  herself  where  she  wanted, 
right  in  the  foreground. 

She  was  tall,  with  narrow  lips  and  a  rounded 
bosom.  Her  face  showed  milky  white  under  her 
black  hair;  but  her  eyes  were  her  most  remarkable 
feature,  very  large  and  very  black,  but  full  of  light 
and  fire,  as  sparkling  as  the  stars  hi  a  clear  winter 
night. 

Michael  felt  the  blood  surging  through  his  veins. 

'Til  be  ^  blot  in  the  picture,  standing  so  near 
you,  Mademoiselle.  You  ought  to  be  beside  one  of 
those  fellows  who' re  dressed  up  hi  their  Sunday 
clothes." 

She  answered  with  frank  directness: 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  You  are  at  work:  it'll 
show  plain  enough  in  the  picture !" 

She  added  with  a  sidewise  glance  through  her  long 
lashes : 

"You're  lucky  he  told  you  he'd  give  you  some  pic- 
tures— I  wish  I  could  get  one !" 


122  NENE 

"All  ready!"  called  the  photographer.  "Every- 
body stand  still  now!" 

She  looked  up  and,  with  a  quick  movement,  threw 
back  her  shawl;  through  the  sheer  net  of  her  waist 
her  bosom  showed  very  white. 

The  photographer  raised  his  hand. 

"Now,  I'll  count.     One!" 

Michael  had  hardly  time  to  turn  his  head  to  face 
the  camera. 

"Two — three !    Thank  you." 

There  was  clearing  of  throats  and  laughter,  and 
the  youngsters  returned  to  their  gambols. 

Michael  turned  around  at  once,  but  the  girl  was 
already  off.  He  wanted  to  go  after  her,  but  then 
he  did  not  dare.  With  his  eyes  he  followed  her 
lithe  figure  wending  its  way  through  the  crowd  of 
rather  heavy-built  peasants  dressed  in  old-fashioned 
finery.  At  a  little  distance,  at  the  top  of  the  incline, 
she  stopped ;  her  glance  fluttered  back  across  the  mea- 
dow, and  meeting  Michael's  eye,  she  gave  him  a 
long,  smiling  look.  Then,  right  away,  she  passed 
over  the  embankment  and  vanished. 

Michael  grew  impatient.  There  remained  only 
two  or  three  purchasers  who  bothered  him  with  de- 
mands for  this  kind  of  fish  rather  than  that,  or 
complained  that  they  were  being  robbed,  and 
weren't  they  free  to  bargain  if  they  liked! 

"Certainly!  Certainly  you're  free — and  so  am 
I!" 


N  E  N  E  123 

He  flung  down  the  fish  he  was  holding : 

"You'll  have  to  wait  a  while  for  me;  I'm  going 
up  to  the  house." 

He  washed  his  hands  and,  leaving  Gideon  to  watch 
the  fish,  he  walked  away.  The  embankment  and 
the  lane  to  the  farm  buildings  were  crowded  with 
merrymakers,  but  the  girl  he  was  looking  for  was  not 
among  them.  He  retraced  his  steps,  walked  down 
through  the  meadow,  and  once  more  turned  back  to 
the  house.  The  caterer  had  set  up  his  tables  in  the 
barn ;  there  was  a  crowd  at  the  door.  Michael  went 
to  look  inside,  but  there  was  only  "the  Otter"  eating 
his  tench  in  the  midst  of  half-drunk  young  fellows. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  disgust  and  turned  on 
his  heel. 

Where  could  she  be*? 

On  his  way  back  to  the  pond  he  saw  her  coming 
toward  him.  She  was  alone,  walking  slowly,  rolling 
her  hips,  so  absorbed  in  thought  that  she  started 
when  he  spoke  to  her : 

"Has  your  young  man  deserted  you  that  I  find 
you  walking  all  by  yourself?" 

"Oh !    You  startled  me  ...    I  didn't  see  you." 

He  repeated  his  question  foolishly: 

"Has  your  young  man  deserted  you*?" 

"I  have  no  young  man." 

"That's  too  bad!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  head  bent  down  a  little, 


124  NENE 

and  her  eyes  were  soft  as  velvet  between  the  half- 
closed  lashes. 

"You're  not  from  these  parts,  are  you^  I've 
never  met  you  anywhere." 

Instead  of  answering  she  questioned  back: 

"And  you,  are  you  the  son  of  the  house*?" 

"I'm  the  son  of  the  house  and  the  master  too. 
That's  why  you  saw  me  haggling  with  the  farmers' 
wives,  and  that's  why  I'm  wearing  wooden  shoes  and 
my  work  clothes." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  playing  with  her 
shawl.  He  went  on: 

"I've  spoken  to  the  photographer — he  told  me 
again  he'd  try  to  send  me  two  pictures.  I'm  glad  I 
happened  across  you,  because  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
that  there'll  be  one  for  you." 

•"It'll  be  a  nice  remembrance.    Thanks !" 

"You're  entitled  to  one.  If  the  picture  is  pretty 
to  look  at,  it'll  be  because  you're  in  it." 

She  raised  her  shoulders  a  little  so  that  the  shawl 
slipped  down,  and  began  to  smile. 

"You  know  how  to  pay  compliments." 

"I  say  as  I  think.  It'll  be  a  gift  to  the  belle  of 
the  party,  and  I'll  not  lose  by  it,  since  he  is  sending 
me  two.  But  I'll  have  to  ask  you  where  you  live 
and  who  you  are." 

She  paused  a  moment,  then: 

"Oh,  you'll  find  out  if  you  want  to !  But  what  if 
you  get  only  one  picture1?" 


N  E  N  E  125 

The  shawl  had  slipped  quite  down,  uncovering 
her  handsome  shoulders  and  shapely  throat.  A 
heady  scent  enfolded  Michael  and  his  ears  rang  like 
Easter  bells. 

"If  he  should  send  you  just  one,  you'd  be  in  a 
fix Would  you  give  it  up — for  me?" 

"Fd  be  only  too  glad! —  But  won't  you  tell 
me  your  name*?" 

She  drew  herself  up  very  close  to  him,  her  shining 
eyes  darting  fire : 

"I  hope  he'll  send  just  one,"  she  said  and  ran 
away. 

From  the  barn  a  man  was  calling  Michael.  He 
was  a  young  mason  of  Saint-Ambroise  who  wanted 
to  pay  him  a  small  sum  he  owed.  They  sat  down 
at  a  table  with  two  other  villagers.  The  mason  had 
been  drinking;  in  a  loud  voice  and  with  great  show 
of  affection  he  recalled  to  Michael  the  good  old 
days  when  they  were  schoolboys  together.  After 
a  while  he  interrupted  himself,  saying  reproach- 
fully: 

"Hey  there,  darn  you !  you  aren't  even  listening!" 

Michael  flushed  hotly: 

"I  was  .  .  .  watching  'the  Otter.' ' 

The  mason,  who  was  now  quite  befuddled, 
shouted : 

"Hey  there,  Otter!  Nice  little  Otter!  Is  your 
gullet  in  working  order?" 

The  guzzler  raised  his  purple  face  a  little  from  the 


126  NENE 

table  and  answered  simply,  without  pride  or  malice : 

"It's  getting  there,  thank  you.  The  bit  I've  swal- 
lowed so  far  has  widened  the  gap.  Pretty  soon  I'll 
have  worked  up  an  appetite." 

Everyone  in  hearing  exclaimed  at  this,  and  even 
Michael  couldn't  help  but  laugK. 

"He's  a  bearcat!" 

"He  must  have  eaten  ten  pounds  already!" 

"Ten !  .  .  .  Better  say  fifteen !  And  not  a  bite 
of  bread!" 

He  had  been  at  it  for  fully  four  hours,  and  during 
that  time  more  than  a  hundred  people  had  come  to 
sit  around  him,  nibble  a  bit  of  white  bait  and  shove 
the  rest  of  their  platefuls  over  to  him. 

There  were  still  about  twenty  men  around  him, 
young  farm-hands  and  villagers  who  had  wagered 
they  would  make  him  stop  or  choke.  They  all 
threw  their  fishbones  under  the  table,  where  he,  too, 
was  disposing  of  his.  They  made  a  heap  high 
enough  to  bury  their  wooden  shoes. 

The  caterer  had  told  the  cook: 

"Go  light  on  the  butter  but  heavy  on  the  pep- 
per." 

The  stratagem  worked.  A  fifteen-gallon  barrel  of 
wine  was  set  on  the  table  and  emptied  in  no  time, 
regardless  of  expense,  while  eyes  grew  round, 
palates  hot  and  tempers  high. 

The  mason,  who  had  forgotten  all  about  the  pay- 
ment he  wanted  to  make  to  Michael,  started  to  sing 


NENE  127 

with  them  and  Michael  hurried  away.  He  wanted 
to  be  alone  and  give  himself  up  to  his  thoughts. 

It  was  getting  toward  evening;  the  pond  party 
was  over.  He  went  to  his  room,  and  it  was  only 
then  the  thought  struck  him  that  he  ought  to  have 
asked  Madeleine  to  bring  the  children  down  and 
pose  in  the  group  picture. 

However,  it  soon  passed  out  of  his  mind  again. 
From  his  window  he  watched  the  crowd  going  home 
to  Saint-Ambroise  or  Chantepie  and  said  to  him- 
self: 

"And  I  don't  even  know  which  way  she  went." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HER  coming  again,  on  the  following  Saturday, 
was  like  a  great  burst  of  light  before  his  eyes. 
Such  a  gust  of  youth  swelled  his  breast  that  for  a 
moment  he  felt  faint. 

He  was  in  the  meadow,  near  the  water-holes 
where  the  fish  were  kept;  she  was  alone,  coming 
along  the  road  from  Saint-Ambroise  with  a  basket 
over  her  arm.  When  she  reached  the  embankment 
she  made  him  a  pretty  curtsy  and  strolled  down 
toward  him,  listlessly,  her  shoulders  swaying  as  if 
poised  for  a  dance. 

"Good  evening,  Monsieur  Corbier!  I  passed  by 
to  see  if  you  still  had  some  fish  to  sell.  Are  there 
any  nice  ones  left?" 

He  did  not  hear  what  she  said,  his  thoughts  in 
a  turmoil. 

"Tell  me  your  name,  since  you  know  mine.  The 
other  day  you  ran  off  without  telling  me." 

"My  name?  Don't  you  sell  fish  to  people  unless 
you  know  their  names'?  My  name  is  Violette,  and 
I'm  a  dressmaker  at  Chantepie." 

"Violette,  you're  the  prettiest  dressmaker  in  all 
the  world!" 

She  gave  a  low  laugh,  with  her  head  thrown  back 

a  little,  like  a  strutting  pigeon. 

128 


NENE  129 

He  went  on,  pointing  to  the  road : 

"You  say  you  are  from  Chantepie,  but  you  came 
from  the  other  direction " 

"That's  because  I've  got  two  new  customers  at 
Saint-Ambroise.  I  went  there  Wednesday  evening; 
now  my  work  is  done  and  I'm  on  my  way  home. 
Passing  by  your  place,  I  thought  I'd  buy  some  fish 
for  mamma,  who  isn't  very  well." 

She  drawled  the  last  words  sweetly  and  sadly  and 
it  gladdened  Michael's  heart  to  find  that  she  was 
as  good  as  she  was  beautiful.  He  spoke  quickly : 

"There  are  very  few  fish  left;  every  day  people 
from  all  around  have  been  coming  for  some.  But 
here  are  some  tench,  and  here  a  few  bream;  and  oh, 
yes,  here  are  the  carp,  but  they're  the  landlord's  fine 
and  I  can't  sell  them." 

She  seemed  annoyed  at  that  and  muttered: 

"I'm  sorry,  I'd  have  bought  one." 

Immediately  he  plunged  his  net  into  the  water- 
hole  and  brought  up  two  enormous  carp. 

"Pick  out  the  best  of  them.  I'd  rather  give  it  to 
you  than  to  the  landlord. —  He'll  have  to  be  satis- 
fied with  the  remaining  five." 

Seeing  him  bent  over  the  net,  she  laughed  silently 
in  triumph ;  then  she  exclaimed : 

"What  big  fellows!  I'd  have  never  thought  they 
were  as  big  as  that !  Thank  you,  but  I  don't  want  it. 
My  basket  is  too  small,  and  besides  it  would  be  too 
heavy  for  me  to  carry  all  the  way  to  Chantepie." 


130  N  E  N  E 

Michael  threw  the  carp  back  into  the  water  and 
selected  the  best  of  the  tench,  filling  her  basket,  and 
when  she  offered  to  pay  for  it,  he  refused  indig- 
nantly. 

"Not  at  all!     You'd  hurt  me  dreadfully!" 

Her  fine  black  eyes  moved  lazily  under  the  caress- 
ing lids. 

"Monsieur  Corbier,  I  appreciate  this  very  much 
and  I  won't  forget  it — but  you'll  know  nothing 
about  it  because  you  never  come  to  Chantepie.  It 
may  be  ten  years  before  we  see  each  other  again." 

He  took  her  up  quickly: 

"Ten  years!  I  hope  not!  If  you'd  said  ten 
days,  I'd  have  still  found  it  too  long " 

As  he  had  come  close  to  her  and  spoken  very  low, 
she  stepped  back  and  broke  in  on  his  speech : 

"Oh, — who  is  that  woman  up  there  at  your  house? 
[Your  hired  girl,  I  suppose?" 

Away  up  near  the  house  Madeleine  was  just  then 
heard  calling  Lalie. 

"Yes,"  said  Michael.     "She's  my  housekeeper." 

"Oh!—    And  Lalie,  who's  she?" 

"She's  my  little  girl;  she's  five  years  old."  After 
a  moment's  hesitation,  he  added :  "She  has  a  little 
brother  who's  younger.  I'm  a  widower." 

"I  know.  I've  heard  all  about  it.  She's  a  Claran- 
deau,  isn't  she — your  hired  girl?" 

"Yes,  the  sister  of  a  young  fellow  who  lost  his 
arm  last  year  at  the  threshing." 


NENE  131 

"Wait  a  minute — I  believe  I  know  her. —  A  big 
woman,  with  pockmarks  on  her  face — still,  not  too 
terribly  homely, — isn't  she1?" 

She  looked  at  him  squarely  and  boldly: 

"Am  I  right?  A  girl  of  about  your  own  age — 
and  not  exactly  homely*?" 

There  was  a  trace  of  annoyance  in  his  answer: 

"What  do  I  know?  Why  don't  you  listen  to 
me?" 

"Because  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Thank  you  very  much, 
and  now  I'll  say  good-bye,  hoping  you'll  give  me  a 
chance  to  repay  you  some  time  for  your  kindness." 

She  turned  on  her  heel,  flicking  her  skirts,  and 
nimbly  ran  up  the  meadow  slope  and  back  to  the 
road. 

When  she  had  gone  a  little  way  she  halted  for  a 
minute.  Her  basket  was  heavy;  she  set  it  down 
and  lifted  the  lid;  it  was  so  full  that  some  of  the 
fish  were  spilled  on  the  road. 

An  insolent  smile  passed  over  her  face;  it  still 
remained  beautiful,  but  the  lines  of  it  were  quite 
changed.  Her  sharp  teeth  glittered  as  if  made  to 
bite  into  living,  bleeding  flesh,  like  the  teeth  of  a 
wild  animal.  The  red,  curled  lip  showed  cruel  wile 
and  perhaps  also  a  little  contempt  for  the  too  easy 
prey. 

"Oh — men!  One  more  I  can  twist  round  my 
little  finger.  If  he  doesn't  come  to-morrow,  he'll 


132  N  E  N  E 

come  running  in  a  week.  I'll  have  to  manage  to  be 
alone." 

Back  at  the  pond,  Michael  stood,  all  reason  swept 
from  his  brain,  following  her  with  his  eyes  as  far 
as  he  could,  drinking  in  exultantly  the  strong  spring 
air  that  was  still  charged  with  the  fragrance  of  her. 

"My  youth  is  not  gone,  since  the  loveliest  of  them 
all  does  not  repulse  me !" 

Leaning  motionless  and  wide  eyed  against  the 
railing  of  the  pond,  he  stood  lost  in  dreams  of  a  mar- 
vellous adventure. 


CHAPTER  XX 

QHORTLY  before  Easter,  old  man  Corbier  died. 
O  One  evening,  as  he  was  going  to  bed,  he  felt  ill. 
Right  away  he  lost  consciousness,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing at  cock  crow  he  passed  away. 

Madeleine  took  the  children  to  the  neighbours  at 
Chestnut  Hill  and  Gideon  made  the  rounds,  carry- 
ing the  news  to  family,  friends  and  neighbours,  all 
the  Dissenters. 

The  praying  women  began  to  come  as  early  as 
eight  o'clock.  The  first  of  them  came  from  the 
nearby  hamlets.  Then  came  those  from  the  outlying 
farmsteads  and  at  last  those  from  Le  Coudray  who 
stayed  for  the  wake.  The  next  day  there  were  many 
of  them :  from  Saint-Ambroise,  from  Chateau-Blanc, 
f  roin  all  the  villages  round  about  wherever  there  was 
a  family  of  Dissenters. 

As  they  came  into  the  house  they  went  down  on 
their  knees  silently,  in  a  circle  around  the  one  who 
recited  the  prayers.  When  one  of  the  group  rose  to 
go  away,  another  immediately  took  her  place. 

The  funeral  took  place  on  the  third  day,  at  Saint- 
Ambroise,  in  the  Dissenters'  burial  ground.  Prayers 
— prayers — prayers!  Prayers  on  the  way  between 
the  flowering  hedges;  prayers  in  the  gloomy  chapel; 

133 


134  N  E  N  E 

long  prayers  at  the  burial  grounds  while  the  coffin 
was  set  on  the  flat  stone  over  the  grave  of  the  last 
priest;  prayers  again  when  the  coffin  was  lowered 
into  the  grave  and  the  handfuls  of  earth  thrown  on 
it. 

Neither  Catholics  nor  Protestants  had  come,  but 
all  the  Dissenters'  families  had  sent  someone.  The 
poor  soul  going  away  alone,  without  viaticum, 
should  at  least  have  all  the  prayers  of  those  near  him 
to  speed  him  on  his  way. 

After  the  burial,  Madeleine  passed  by  Chestnut 
Hill  to  fetch  the  children.  When  she  reached  the 
Moulinettes,  she  found  the  family  gathered  there: 
two  brothers-in-law  of  Michael,  his  uncle,  several 
cousins  and  also  his  parents-in-law  with  Georgette, 
his  sister-in-law,  who  had  come  too,  brazenly. 

All  these  people  were  discussing  family  affairs; 
when  Madeleine  entered,  they  fell  silent,  and  the 
looks  of  some  were  hostile.  So  she  left  her  mourning 
hood  and  went  out  into  the  garden  with  a  troubled 
heart  because,  all  at  once,  she  had  felt  herself  a 
stranger.  She  went  to  the  barn  and,  passing  to  the 
lean-to  of  the  hands,  she  began  to  arrange  things  so 
that  Gideon  could  come  to  sleep  in  the  master's 
room  that  evening. 

As  she  came  back,  she  saw  that  Georgette  had 
seated  herself  on  a  bench  by  the  doorway,  with  Jo 
on  her  lap.  She  was  playing  with  him,  teasing  him, 
tossing  him  up  and  then  cradling  him  in  her  arms. 


NENE  135 

Madeleine  came  up  to  them,  smitten  with  jeal- 
ousy. The  little  tot  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  call- 
ing: "Nene!  Nene!"  But  Georgette  said  point- 
edly: 

"I'm  your  Nene,  darling.  Kiss  your  Nene !  You 
must  not  call  that  girl  'Nene !' ' 

In  a  flash  Madeleine  was  upon  her,  bristling  with 
anger;  without  a  word  she  tore  away  the  other 
woman's  hands  and,  holding  the  baby  close  to  her 
bosom,  she  went  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ON  Violette's  name  day  Boiseriot  presented  him- 
self at  Chantepie  with  a  little  gift  box  that 
held  a  silver  thimble  and  a  pair  of  scissors.  Vio- 
lette  was  politely  pleased,  and  her  mother  kept  Bois- 
eriot to  lunch. 

When  Vespers  rang,  the  mother  went  to  church, 
leaving  the  two  by  themselves. 

Violette  played  with  the  scissors,  saying: 

"They're  pretty.    I'll  take  good  care  of  them." 

While  inwardly  she  thought: 

"They're  just  tin.  The  whole  thing  didn't  cost 
him  more  than  thirty  sous.  But  why  did  he  do  it? 
What's  struck  him,  this  year?" 

Boiseriot  laughed  like  a  man  who  is  happy  to  be 
alive. 

"When  you  get  married  I'll  give  you  a  handsome 
present,  don't  you  fear !  Your  godfather  isn't  rich, 
but  he's  all  alone,  living  like  an  old  wolf.  He  could 
manage  to  buy  you  a  gold  necklace, — or  give  you  a 
dozen  gold  pieces  for  your  wedding." 

"I  haven't  any  sweetheart." 

"Better  go  and  get  you  one,  little  girl." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  they 

talked  about  the  weather  and  Violette's  new  cus- 

136 


N  E  N  E  137 

tomers.  She  lifted  innocent  eyes  to  him,  but  all 
her  guile  and  craft  were  on  the  alert. 

"By  and  by  he'll  have  to  stop  beating  about 
the  bush,"  she  thought.  "I  wonder  what's  on  his 
mind?' 

Finally  he  ask  in  an  offhand  way: 

"Did  you  go  to  the  Moulinettes  for  the  pond- 
draining1?" 

"Yes,  and  I'm  not  sorry  I  did.  You  yourself  put 
it  into  my  head  to  go.  Thank  you  for  having  told 
me." 

"Did  they  get  much  fish?' 

"Quite  a  lot.  I  bought  some  from  the  man  you 
told  me  about." 

"Michael  Corbier?" 

"Yes.  A  handsome  man  and  well-spoken !  You 
had  a  row  with  him.  I'm  sure  you  were  in  the 
wrong." 

He  answered  smoothly: 

"Perhaps  I  was.  I'm  an  impulsive  fellow;  we  had 
some  words  about  the  farm  work — but  I'm  not  hold- 
ing any  grudge  against  him." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Violette  with  a  show  of  con- 
viction. 

"I'd  even  like  him  to  know  it.  I  shouldn't  have 
minded  meeting  him  here,  that  time  he  called." 

He  was  watching  her  slyly  with  sharp  eyes.  She 
thought  of  parrying  the  thrust,  but  then  decided  to 


138  N  E  N  E 

give  herself  the  satisfaction  of  showing  him  that  he 
wasn't  taking  her  in. 

"Go  on!"  she  said.  "Why  don't  you  admit  that 
you  know  nothing  and  would  like  to  know  all"? 
Don't  think  I'm  a  fool !  It's  true,  Michael  Corbier 
did  call,  but  he  doesn't  want  anybody  to  know  about 
it.  I'm  telling  you,  because  you  are  my  godfather." 

Boiseriot  laughed. 

"That's  good ! —  That's  fine !  You  haven't  lost 
your  time!  But  you  know  he  has  two  kids.  Be- 
sides, he's  a  Dissenter.  What's  your  idea*?" 

She  waved  her  hand  with  an  air  of  perfect  uncon- 
cern and  answered,  this  time  quite  frankly: 

"I  don't  know."  Then  she  added :  "And  you?— 
What's  your  idea  about  it?" 

"I  don't  know  either,  my  dear.  And  what's  more, 
it  doesn't  concern  me." 

She  insisted  coaxingly: 

"Oh,  but  it  does !  I'll  tell  you  all  that  happens 
— and  I'll  come  to  you  for  advice." 

"We'll  see  about  that!  .  .  .  After  all,  I'm  not 
against  this  thing." 

He  spoke  calmly,  but  his  eyes  gleamed  with  ma- 
licious pleasure.  He  went  on  smoothly: 

"Didn't  I  hear  somewhere  last  Summer  that  there 
was  a  Dissenter  from  Saint-Ambroise  going  with 
you*? — a  big  fellow  they  call  Trooper,  who  lost  his 
arm  in  the  threshing  machine?" 

"People  did  some  talking,  yes — but  they  don't 


N  E  N  E  139 

any  more.    I  haven't  seen  him  since  his  accident." 

"I'd  say  you  were  wise.  It's  not  a  nice  family 
— people  of  no  standing.  .  .  .  His  sister  happens 
to  be  Corbier's  hired  girl;  she  isn't  of  much  account 
— and  yet,  there  are  things  being  said " 

Violette  looked  at  him  so  keenly  that  he  put  off 
to  some  later  day  the  telling  of  what  he  wanted  her 
to  hear.  Having  finished  his  coffee,  he  left  her. 

On  his  way  home,  he  felt  like  dancing. 

"I've  got  them!  I've  got  them,  every  one! — 
Corbier,  Madeleine,  Trooper — and  I'll  get  Gideon 
too.  The  girl's  a  bad  one — not  so  clever,  either — 
not  nearly  so  clever  as  she  thinks! —  Ah,  I've  got 
you!  You're  no  match  for  me!" 

Violette  had  remained  on  the  threshold,  following 
him  with  her  eyes,  amused  at  seeing  him  so  frisky. 

"There  he  goes,  thinking  I'll  keep  him  informed 
and  ask  his  advice!  He's  got  some  grudge  against 
them,  the  little  sneak!  But  that's  nothing  to  me. 
I'll  have  some  fun  and  hang  the  rest!  Michael 
is  a  handsome  fellow;  his  eyes  are  blacker  than 
mine.  ...  I  kind  of  liked  Trooper  too — last 
year.  .  .  .  And  the  others!  All  the  others!  My 
friend,  if  you  want  to  know  them  all,  I'll  make  you 
do  some  travelling." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MEANWHILE,  at  the  Moulinettes,  Mad- 
eleine was  laboriously  writing  on  a  sheet 
of  flowered  notepaper  that  her  brother  had  brought. 

He  sat  at  the  table,  opposite  her,  and  the  blue 
pools  of  his  eyes  were  troubled  and  restless. 

His  accident  had  left  its  mark  upon  him;  he  car- 
ried his  head  low  like  a  weakling  who  dares  not  look 
life  in  the  face.  His  fine  moustache,  that  he  used  to 
keep  so  trim,  had  grown  bristly  and  seemed  redder 
now  in  his  emaciated  face. 

He  had  had  one  shock  after  another,  these  ten 
months  since  he  was  crippled. 

First  of  all,  the  insurance  company  had  given  him 
only  six  hundred  francs  in  all;  when  his  expenses 
had  been  paid  out  of  this,  he  had  been  left  penni- 
less. 

For  a  few  days  in  winter,  he  had  found  employ- 
ment turning  the  crank  of  a  grain  separator,  which 
was  work  for  a  child  or  a  dotard,  and  he  had  per- 
formed it  with  a  bad  grace,  just  to  earn  his  bread. 
In  the  spring  he  had  found  a  fortnight's  job  at  sim- 
ilar work  in  town.  Then  he  had  returned  to  Le 
Coudray  where  he  had  hunted  up  small  odd  jobs 
now  and  then,  here  and  there.  He  was  set  to 

catching  moles  in  the  fields, — leading  animals  to 

140 


NENE  141 

fairs, — gathering  rocks,  or  trimming  brushwood 
hedges  with  a  sickle:  mere  trifles  that  were  put  his 
way  for  the  sake  of  charity. 

He  had  applied  for  an  appointment  as  letter  car- 
rier, counting  firmly  on  getting  it  at  once,  as  his 
right;  but  nothing  had  come  of  it.  However,  his 
hopes  had  risen  again  these  last  days,  concerning 
this;  that  is  why  he  was  writing  to  Violette. 

"Well  now,  what  do  you  want  me  to  say,  big 
brother?' 

Madeleine  had  written  the  date  line  and  the 
usual  form  of  address;  and  now  she  was  waiting, 
pen  in  hand. 

"Well?" 

"Make  her  a  pretty  compliment  first,  if  you  don't 
mind,  saying  that  I  love  her  more  than  ever." 

"What  compliment?" 

"Tell  her  she's  a  beauty — because  she  is !  WTien 
she  looks  at  you  the  weather  brightens — it's  as 
though  the  morning  sun  were  beginning  to  shine. 
All  around  her  the  air  is  young  and  smells  sweet, 
like  a  breeze  playing  among  the  apple  blossoms!" 

"Goose !    That's  only  the  scent  she  puts  on !" 

Madeleine  laughed  at  his  fervid  air  and  resumed 
her  writing. 

"I  have  told  her  she  is  the  best-looking  girl  in 
the  county.  True  or  false,  it'll  please  her.  And 
I  go  on  to  say  that  you'd  like  to  be  always  at  her 
feet." 


142  N  E  N  E 

"Say  I'm  longing  for  the  sight  of  her." 

"Haven't  you  seen  her  in  such  a  long  time?" 

He  did  not  answer  her  immediately;  his  lips  quiv- 
ered ;  then  he  said  shamefacedly : 

"It's  just  ten  months  and  three  weeks." 

"Oh,  you  poor  boy!" 

Madeleine  dropped  her  pen  and  looked  at  him  out 
of  eyes  brimming  with  pity. 

"But  then,  why  do  you  want  me  to  write?  Why 
do  you  want  me  to  write  compliments  to  a  hussy 
who's  thrown  you  over?" 

"Please,  Madeleine,  don't  say  anything  against 
her;  I  wouldn't  like  it.  If  she  didn't  love  me  I'd 
go  crazy.  But  she  does,  I  tell  you!  She  hasn't 
thrown  me  over.  It's  her  mother — she's  forbidden 
her  to  see  me — that's  what  she  wrote  me  in  her 
reply  to  the  letter  you  put  down  for  me  at  the  hos- 
pital.—  Her  mother  doesn't  want  her  to  speak  to 
a  Dissenter. —  Some  people  get  hard  when  they're 
old. —  What  can  she  do?  Just  wait,  that's  all. — 
I've  tried  to  meet  her;  I  went  to  Chantepie,  but  she 
didn't  dare  to  come  out. —  Her  mother's  watching 
her  every  minute !  I've  waited  for  her  by  the  way- 
side, too,  at  the  hour  when  she  was  due  to  come  home 
from  her  work — but  I've  never  had  any  luck. —  Oh, 
yes, — once!  I  saw  her  coming — but  there  was  a 
girl  who  helps  her  coming  along  with  her,  so,  of 
course,  she  didn't  speak — she  just  waved  her  hand  at 


N  E  N  E  143 

me  from  a  distance. —  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer; 
my  head's  swimming;  I've  got  to  talk  to  her!" 

He  paused,  and  then  he  added  with  an  air  of  de- 
termination : 

"Besides,  I've  got  news  for  her!" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Madeleine. 

"You'll  say,  first,  that  the  matter  of  religion  is 
not  a  hindrance.  Let  her  tell  that  to  her  mother; 
I'm  open  to  argument  on  that. —  I'll  see  what  I 
can  do." 

Madeleine  pushed  back  the  flowered  paper 
angrily : 

"You  can't  make  my  hand  write  that.  I'd  be 
too  ashamed!  Nobody  in  our  family  has  ever 
changed  himself.  It's  our  pride.  You'd  be  the 
first,  and  they'd  point  fingers  at  you!" 

He  kept  silent. 

"You  don't  stand  up  for  our  faith.  .  .  .  You 
leave  your  own  people.  .  .  .  You  give  in.  ...  Is 
that  what  you  call  being  a  man*?" 

She  stopped,  a  little  frightened  at  having  flung 
such  harsh  words  at  her  stricken  brother.  But  it 
was  her  duty  to  speak  out — there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  that! — a  duty  hardly  perceptible,  yet  as  deeply 
rooted  as  the  instinct  of  pity,  which  is  in  all  good 
women — those  guardians  of  the  race. 

He  sat  there  in  silence,  head  low,  pale  as  death, 
and  trembling. 

"John,  you're  not  a  man!  .  .  .  You  mustn't  do 


144  NENE 

this.     It's  mean!    We've  got  to  hold  on — hold 


on 

He  replied  sullenly,  with  a  break  in  his  voice: 

"Whatever  you  say  doesn't  matter;  Violette  wins. 
If  it  weren't  for  my  being  crippled,  I  wouldn't  have 
come  to  this  pass.  Now  I'm  like  an  uprooted  alder 
bush  floating  down  stream." 

She  let  her  look  dwell  on  him  for  a  while  as  he 
sat  there  all  huddled  up  and  so  pitiful  with  his  big, 
untidied  head,  his  quivering  lips — and  that  empty 
sleeve  hanging  at  his  side. 

"Hold  on!  ...  Hold  on!  .  .  ." 

She  wasn't  sorry  she  had  spoken  out  as  she  had; 
she  felt  sure  she  had  said  only  what  had  to  be  said. 
But,  in  the  end,  her  mercy  was  upmost. 

"Poor  old  dear,  the  hour  of  misery  has  indeed 
come  upon  you." 

She  wept.     . 

Then  she  picked  up  her  pen  and  wrote  the  words 
of  apostasy  as  she  would  have  given  a  dying  man 
his  most  outrageous  wish,  without  a  sound,  for  fear 
of  showing  how  guiltily  weak  she  knew  herself 
to  be. 

When  she  had  finished,  she  wiped  her  eyes  and, 
seeing  him  still  in  the  same  dejected  posture,  she 
drew  him  to  her  and  kissed  him. 

That  gave  him  encouragement,  and  he  said: 

"There's  something  else  I  want  her  to  know.  I'm 
not  rich  just  now,  but  I'm  going  to  get  a  good  job. 


N  E  N  E  145 

I'm  sure  of  it,  now.  They're  looking  for  another 
postman  at  Chateau-Blanc,  and  I'm  to  get  the  job." 

Madeleine  wrote  this  down  quickly. 

"Are  you  sure*?  When  are  you  going  to  be  ap- 
pointed?" 

"Maybe  in  a  week,  maybe  in  a  month,  maybe  to- 
morrow. It  just  depends  on  how  long  it'll  take  for 
the  red  tape." 

His  voice  rang  clear  as  he  added: 

"As  soon  as  I'm  postman  at  Chateau-Blanc  I 
hope  Violette's  mother  will  change  her  mind  and  let 
us  get  married.  I'll  get  good  wages,  and  with  what 
she  can  earn  at  her  trade  working  at  home,  we'll  be 
pretty  well  fixed,  I'd  say !" 

He  winked  slyly  and  went  on,  taking  her  into  his 
confidence. 

"Let  me  tell  you,  now :  there  are  plenty  of  plums, 
only  you  must  know  how  to  get  them!  At  first,  I 
just  made  my  application,  all  by  myself.  I've  served 
my  time  in  the  army,  haven't  I?  And  they  made  me 
a  corporal — and  now  I'm  crippled — I've  got  the 
right  on  my  side — and  enough  schooling — I've 
taught  myself  to  write  a  little  with  my  left  hand. — 
All  right!  You  think  you  have  the  job  all  sewed 
up  tight?  Well,  you  wait  and  see!  Wait  three 
months:  nothing!  six  months:  nothing!  eight 
months :  nothing ! —  Then  I  looked  around  and  in- 
quired, and  some  one  told  me:  'You'd  better  go 
and  see  M.  Blanchard !'  You  have  heard  about  M. 


146  N  E  N  E 

Blanchard,  haven't  you1?  All  the  Dissenters  voted 
for  him  at  election;  it  wasn't  our  fault  that  he 
lost. —  All  the  same,  he  has  a  big  pull,  being  for  the 
Government.  I  didn't  like  one  bit  hunting  him  up, 
because  I  don't  like  to  ask  favours.  But  I  made  up 
my  mind.  I  told  him  my  business  and  this  and  that, 
giving  answer  to  all  his  questions.  He  asked  me 
for  whom  I  voted.  I  didn't  want  to  answer  di- 
rectly, but  I  said:  'I  am  a  Dissenter!'  He  just 
chuckled  in  his  big  beard :  'Good !  good !  You  can 
count  on  my  help,  young  man,  my  very  best  help !' ' 

"Oh,  then,  yes !  The  thing's  settled,"  said  Made- 
leine, sealing  the  letter. 

"You've  said  it!" 

This  Monsieur  Blanchard  had  formally  promised 
the  same  position  to  three  others  after  John  Claran- 
deau.  And  only  a  few  days  later  he  had  obtained 
the  job  of  postman  at  Chateau-Blanc  for  one  of  the 
most  militant  young  Catholics,  a  sad  specimen  who 
had  promised  to  go  back  on  his  affiliations,  to  vote 
openly,  before  witnesses,  and  to  make  his  people  vote 
the  same  way. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THERE  was  a  clatter  of  wooden  shoes  at  the 
door  and  a  curious,  sing-song  voice  called: 

"Hey!  Hey!  Who's  there?  It's  me,  Jules.— 
Come  in,  my  dear! —  I  will  come  in,  if  there's  no 
bad  boy  in  the  house  and  no  sticks  behind  the 
door." 

Lalie  was  pale  with  fright  and  ran  to  clutch  the 
skirts  of  Madeleine,  who  began  to  laugh. 

"Don't  be  frightened :  it's  only  Jules  the  natural, 
talking  to  himself.  Is  that  you,  Jules'?" 

"It's  me,  Jules.    Come  in,  my  dear." 

"All  right,  then,  come  in." 

The  door  opened  and  a  man  appeared  who  at 
once  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  then  spat  on 
the  floor  to  show  his  disgust. 

"You  can  sit  down,  Jules,"  said  Madeleinte'; 
"there  aren't  any  bad  boys  around." 

The  half-wit  looked  behind  the  furniture  and 
under  the  bed;  then  he  stood  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  and  began  to  mumble: 

"Jules,  why  do  you  go  to  the  Dissenters?  My 
Lord  God,  I  have  no  use  for  them.  Jules,  you 
close  the  gates  of  their  field,  you  go  and  fill  their 
jugs  at  the  spring.  My  Lord  God,  it  isn't  true, 

147 


148  N  E  N  E 

Thou  art  a  great  liar !  May  the  devil  burn  all  the 
Dissenters !" 

Once  more  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and 
thus  having  conjured  away  any  possible  bad  luck 
he  sat  down  quietly,  sticking  his  feet  out  toward  the 
grate. 

Madeleine  had  gone  back  to  her  work,  without 
paying  much  attention  to  him.  She  had  known  him 
for  twenty  years  and  she  was  used  to  his  ways. 

This  Jules  was  a  curious  sort  of  half-wit.  With 
a  mind  on  a  level  of  that  of  a  small  child,  he  yet  had 
an  astonishing  memory.  He  knew  all  the  villages 
five  leagues  round  about;  he  knew  all  the  fields,  all 
the  paths,  all  the  trees.  On  the  blackest  night  he 
could  go  anywhere  without  losing  his  way  or  hunting 
for  it,  even  in  parts  of  the  country  where  he  had 
been  but  once.  He  knew  everybody  by  name,  some- 
times he  would  tell  the  youngsters  what  the  weather 
had  been  like  on  the  day  of  their  christening  and 
the  names  of  their  godfather  and  godmother  and 
whether  there  had  been  any  sugar  almonds  given 
away  to  the  neighbours.  When  anybody  asked  him 
about  things  like  that  he  replied  at  once,  without 
even  a  moment's  thought. 

He  was  very  gentle  of  temper  and  became  angry 
only  when  somebody  pretended  that  he  ought  to  get 
married  and  insisted  on  it.  If  you  wanted  to  get 
rid  of  him,  you  merely  had  to  take  a  piece  of  paper 
and  read  aloud:  "In  the  name  of  the  law,  Jules 


N  E  N  E  149 

the  natural,  I  marry  you  to "  That  made  him 

scamper  away  as  fast  as  his  legs  would  take  him. 
One  day,  when  some  youngsters  were  teasing  him 
like  this  after  locking  the  door,  he  bit  them  and 
jumped  at  the  window  like  a  cornered  cat. 

He  babbled  to  himself  all  day  long,  with  ques- 
tions and  answers.  You  could  hear  him  on  the 
roads,  keeping  up  an  interminable  conversation  with 
his  thousands  of  friends  and  acquaintances. 

Often  he  talked  with  the  Lord,  and  sometimes  he 
would  get  excited  and  swing  his  stick,  because  He 
was  making  him  sore  with  His  indelicate  questions. 

Madeleine  explained  all  this  to  Lalie  as  best  she 
could,  but  the  child's  fear  of  the  man  would  not  go. 

"May  the  devil  burn  all  the  Dissenters!  They 
stink  like  badgers !" 

There  was  no  fire  in  the  grate;  nevertheless  he 
held  his  feet  up  to  it  in  all  seriousness. 

"That  isn't  nice  talk,"  said  Madeleine.  "Why 
do  you  say  such  things  about  the  Dissenters?" 

"They  have  pillows  of  chicken  feathers  and  no 
nails  under  their  wooden  shoes — nor  any  pork  in 
their  pantry. —  Would  you  like  something  to  eat, 
Jules'?  A  little  mouthful,  with  a  piece  of  bread. — 
Go  away,  Jules,  we  have  nothing,  we're  down  and 
out,  we  can't  pay  our  debts. —  Small  fry !" 

Madeleine  smiled  and  gave  him  a  big  hunk  of 
bread  and  a  slice  of  pork.  He  ate  it  so  eagerly  that 
even  Lalie  was  amazed. 


150  N  E  N  E 

Madeleine  asked  him  the  usual  questions. 

"How  old  are  you  now,  Jules'?" 

"I  entered  the  army  at  twenty-one.  Now  you 
count,  from  that." 

"Jules,  is  it  true  you  are  going  to  get  married*?" 

He  was  so  well  in  his  stride  that  he  merely  re- 
plied : 

"I  am  a  natural;  God  protects  me." 

"I've  been  told  so,  though.  I've  been  told  the 
mayor  himself  was  going  to  marry  you." 

"May  the  devil  burn  the  mayor !" 

But  this  last  had  roused  him  and  he  had  got  up 
and  run  to  the  door. 

"Sit  down,  Jules,  he  won't  come  here,  never 
fear! —  Sit  down!" 

He  wouldn't  be  quieted  and  remained  standing, 
with  his  eyes  on  the  door. 

"Have  the  Dissenters  any  more  bread  for  Jules, 
who  has  some  of  his  pork  left*?" 

Madeleine  handed  him  a  small  piece;  he  gobbled 
the  rest  of  his  pork  and  said : 

"Have  the  Dissenters  any  more  pork  for  Jules, 
who  hasn't  finished  his  bread*?" 

"You're  a  nice  one!"  said  Madeleine.  "Can't 
you  be  content  with  what  I've  given  you?  Here, 
take  this  slice  and  go  away.  I'm  busy." 

He  hid  the  pork  in  his  hand  and  swallowed  the 
bread. 

"Have  the  Dissenters "  he  began. 


NENE  151 

"Stop  it!"  said  Madeleine,  who  was  trying  to 
catch  up  with  her  work.  "You  aren't  hungry  any 
more." 

"Dissenters  have  nails  under  their  wooden  shoes. 
They're  big  fry,  they  are !" 

"That's  all!" 

"My  Lord  God,  let  the  Dissenters  sleep  on  goose 
feathers! —  My  Lord  God,  give  them  a-plenty  to 
eat!" 

"That's  all!" 

"Jules  will  tell  the  news." 

Madeleine  couldn't  help  laughing: 

"You're  a  pest ! —    Go  on,  tell  your  news." 

"The  priest  won't  give  Jules  any  cider.  So  Jules 
says,  morning  and  night:  'My  Lord  God,  Father 
Picon  broke  Friday's  fast  by  eating  a  wren's  nest/ 
Rivard  has  polled  his  grey  cow.  Bourru  shut  up 
the  devil  in  his  poultry  yard  and  a  big  rooster 
pecked  out  his  eye.  Mme.  Berceger  is  dead,  Mme. 
Rousselot  is  dead,  Mme.  Piquereau  is  dead.  The 
Protestant  pastor  has  the  dropsy  in  his  belly — may 
he  burst! —  Have  the  Dissenters  any  bread?" 

"All  right,  here  you  are !    Eat !" 

He  took  the  bread  and  went  on,  by  way  of  thanks. 

"Trooper  didn't  get  the  job  of  postman;  that 
made  him  madder  than  Jules." 

Madeleine  turned  round  as  if  struck : 

"Hush!    Don't  say  that!" 


152  N  E  N  E 

"What  news  do  you  want?  Would  you  like  to 
hear  about  the  marriages?" 

"All  right,  tell  me  about  the  marriages,"  said 
Madeleine. 

"Louise  Bruneau  is  marrying  Jacques,  of  L'Or- 
meau.  Pierre  Harteau  is  marrying  his  cousin,  of 
Monverger.  Father  Picon  is  marrying  Julie-red- 
eye, the  old  witch  of  the  Hardilas:  bad  business, 
that!" 

"Too  bad,  I  should  say !"  smiled  Madeleine.  "Go 
on!" 

"Bray  of  the  Little  Pasture  is  going  with  Jeanne 
Lourigeon;  Philip  the  mason  is  going  with  Bertha, 
of  the  lower  village;  Michael  Corbier,  your  mas- 
ter here,  is  going  with  Violette,  of  Chantepie — and 
Jules  is  going  with  nails  under  his  wooden  shoes 
when  he  isn't  going  barefoot." 

Madeleine  came  closer,  not  having  heard  well : 

"What's  that  you  say  about  Michael  Corbier  ?" 

"Corbier  of  the  Moulinettes  is  going  with  Violette, 
the  dressmaker." 

"You5 re  a  liar,  Jules!" 

"My  Lord  God,  is  Jules  a  liar?  No,  Jules,  you 
are  not  a  liar." 

"But  who  can  have  told  }{ouisuch  a  thing?"  cried 
Madeleine. 

"Boiseriot,  of  Cha'ntepie,  he  told  me.  He  said: 
'Go  and  tell  it  to  Madeleine,  at  the  Moulinettes/ 


NENE  153 

What  did  he  give  Jules  for  his  trouble*?  A  hand- 
ful of  sugar  and  a  mellow  pear." 

"Oh,  Boiseriot!  Thank  you!  And  now  go 
away,  Jules. —  No,  no,  you  won't  get  any  more 
pork;  you've  eaten  enough.  You'd  be  sick.  Go 

v 

away,  go  away  now!  Or  I'll  call  the  mayor  to 
marry  you." 

At  this  threat  he  skurried  out  into  the  yard  and 
ran  away  as  fast  as  he  could. 

"The  mayor!  May  the  devil  burn  the  mayor! 
May  he  burn  him!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AT  the  moment,  Madeleine  felt  only  a  slight 
shock.  It  took  her  some  time  to,  realise  that 
the  wound  was  ugly  and  might  rankle.  At  .first  she 
had  thought  only  of  herself.  "Corbier  of  the  Moul- 
inettes  goes  to  see  Violette,  the  dressmaker !"  Well, 
let  him  go !  This  was  the  second  time  she  had  been 
hurt  in  this  way  through  Michael.  But  this  second 
blow  hurt  less  than  the  first;  it  didn't  really  upset 
her  much. 

Some  girls  she  knew,  in  cases  like  this  one,  had 
gone  into  a  decline;  others  had  almost  gone  insane 
or  had  grown  old  all  at  once: — she  couldn't  quite 
see  how  such  things  could  happen. 

What  was  a  "broken  heart"  but  a  fancy,  some- 
thing like  a  cloud  over  a  mirror  that  you  rubbed 
away  with  a  cloth?  There  might  be  a  few  tears  at 
first,  but  afterward ! —  With  both  hands  busy  from 
morning  to  night,  a  girl  ought  to  get  over  such  a 
small  thing  quickly  enough. 

For  her  own  part,  Madeleine  was  convinced  of 
it.  But  other  thoughts  had  come  to  trouble  her — 
much  more  grievous  and  heart-rending  thoughts. 

What  would  become  of  her  brother  ?  He  had  seen 
Violette  again ;  Madeleine  knew  it  and  she  imagined, 
reasonably  enough,  that  the  hussy  made  a  game  of 

154 


N  E  N  E  155 

searing  men's  hearts.  If  she  encouraged  Michael 
and  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  only  to  laugh  at  them 
afterwards,  let  her,  and  no  great  harm  done !  Why 
did  the  fools  let  her  catch  them*?  But  with  a  crip- 
ple it  wasn't  the  same  at  all;  at  least,  not  to  Mad- 
eleine. Then  the  game  became  cruel  and  cowardly, 
a  very  ugly  kind  of  sin. 

What  would  become  of  poor  Trooper"?  Already 
he  had  been  doing  some  foolish  things.  Every  now 
and  again  he  got  drunk;  one  night  at  Saint- Am- 
broise,  while  drunk,  he  had  beaten  up  the  inn- 
keeper and  kicked  a  door  in. 

If  it  were  only  understood,  once  and  for  all,  that 
Violette  jilted  him!  But  on  the  contrary!  She  had 
again  found  means  of  leading  him  on,  and  there  was 
no  doubt  that  she  held  him  in  leash  closer  than  any 
of  the  other  fellows. 

When  he  heard  about  his  sweetheart's  behaviour 
— and  Boiseriot  would  see  to  it  soon  enough  that  he 
did — there  was  sure  to  be  trouble.  The  very  thought 
of  it  made  Madeleine  shiver. 

Then  there  was  Michael,  too.  What  on  earth 
had  come  over  him?  A  man  of  thirty,  and  fixed  as 
he  was!  The  idea  of  his  falling  in  love  with  such 
a  young  thing  whose  head  was  filled  with  nothing 
but  tricks!  Was  he  thinking  of  marrying  the  girl? 
Anyhow,  even  if  he  was,  Violette  had  no  such  inten- 
tion! Just  imagine  the  pretty  little  dressmaker  in 
a  work  apron  and  clumsy  wooden  shoes ! 


156  NENE 

And  what  about  the  children*?  Couldn't  he 
think  of  them  a  little?  Could  anybody  love  them 
more  than  Madeleine*?  Could  they  possibly  be  torn 
away  from  her  some  day*? 

"Let  them  try!     Just  let  them  try!" 

At  the  mere  thought  of  it,  Madeleine's  head 
buzzed  like  a  swarm  of  hornets. 

"Oh,  I'm  just  a  big  fool !  Michael  is  only  a  bad 
boy  having  his  fun. —  If  he  gets  hurt,  so  much  the 
better!  It's  all  plain  foolishness  and  no  more! 
Besides,  how  do  I  know  there's  any  truth  in  it  at 
all?  I'll  have  to  find  out." 

She  began  watching  Michael. 

The  death  of  his  father  had  been  a  blow  to  him; 
on  the  first  Sundays  after  the  funeral,  he  had  stayed 
at  home  except  to  go  to  rosary  prayers.  Then,  lit- 
tle by  little,  he  resumed  his  old  habits.  Now  he 
often  didn't  return  home  on  Sundays  until  night- 
fall. 

As  he  rarely  went  to  the  inn,  Madeleine  concluded 
that  he  must  be  gadding  about.  She  tried  to  draw 
him  out,  but  did  not  succeed. 

He  received  letters  outside  of  the  house;  twice 
the  postman  had  asked  Madeleine  where  Michael 
was  at  work.  That  was  singular,  rather  strange 

At  last  the  day  came  when  Madeleine  could  doubt 
no  longer.  It  was  a  Saturday  in  October.  At 
eleven  o'clock  Madeleine  was  tasting  the  soup  that 
she  had  just  seasoned  when  the  postman  came  in. 


N  E  N  E  157 

"Here's  a  letter  for  Michael  Corbier !" 

He  held  it  high  for  a  moment,  sniffing  the  air. 

"My,  but  it  smells  good!  A  pretty  girl  could 
use  it  as  a  sachet  in  her  waist!" 

Not  wanting  to  make  any  comment,  Madeleine 
asked : 

"Can  I  get  you  a  drink  of  wine?  It's  a  warm 
day,  walking." 

He  answered:  "I  just  had  a  drink  at  Chestnut 
Hill — Thank  you  kindly,  all  the  same.  Good  dayj" 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  Madeleine  looked  at  the 
letter.  It  was  on  pretty  blue  notepaper,  as  smooth 
as  a  looking  glass,  and  it  did  smell  .heavily  of 
scent.  The  postmark  in  the  corner  was  blurred  and 
not  easy  to  make  out.  Madeleine,  however,  could 
trace  almost  all  the  letters  of  the  word  "Chantepie." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Michael  came  in  from  his 
ploughing. 

"The  postman  brought  a  letter  for  you,"  said 
Madeleine.  "It's  there,  on  the  table." 

He  seemed  annoyed,  picked  up  the  letter  and 
went  out  again  without  a  word. 

Instantly  Madeleine  flew  to  the  window,  behind 
the  curtain. 

Out  in  the  yard,  he  was  opening  the  envelop.  A 
flower  fell  out;  he  picked  it  up  very  carefully  and 
gazed  on  it ;  then  he  took  a  little  notebook  from  his 
pocket  and  actually  put  his  old  flower  between  its 
leaves — the  big  silly! 


158  N  E  N  E 

That  was  a  little  too  much  for  Madeleine  to  re- 
press a  movement  of  spite,  and  even  while  she  tried 
to  laugh,  two  big  tears  welled  to  her  lashes. 

She  turned  away,  rushed  to  the  soup  kettle,  threw 
off  the  lid  with  a  great  clatter,  reached  into  the 
salt-box  and  dumped  two  big  handfuls  of  salt  into 
the  soup. 

After  which  she  set  a  small  pot  to  simmer  by  the 
fire,  for  the  children. 


PART  TWO 


PART  TWO 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  a  shady  spot  on  the  short-cut  grass  of  the 
meadow,  Lalie  was  trying  to  manage  a  "ring 
around"  dance.  Her  right  hand  held  one  of  Jo's 
and  in  her  left  dangled  Zine,  the  wooden  doll.  She 
had  crowned  Jo  with  a  wreath  of  rushes  and  over 
Zinc's  heart  she  had  tied,  with  a  bit  of  worsted 
thread,  a  big  bunch  of  daisies.  It  was  just  like  a 
wedding  party. 

"Around,  around  the  sleeping  lake,' — 

Lazily,  lazily  sways  the  wind — 
My  white  duck  follows  my  black  drake. 
Merrily,  merrily  .  .  ." 

Here  Lalie  stopped,  not  remembering  how  it  went 
on. 

"Nene,  what  comes  now*?" 

Madeleine  sang  the  next  lines,  bent  over  her  wash- 
ing: 

"Merrily,  merrily  plays  the  wind, 
Lazily,  lazily  sways  the  wind." 

"Oh  yes !    I  remember  now !" 
Lalie  jumped  with  pleasure  and  went  on,  turning 
around  more  rapidly: 

161 


i62  NENE 

"The  King's  son  comes  and  aims  his 
Lazily,  lazily  sways  the  wind. — 
He  kills  my  duck,  the  bad  King's  son  .  .  ." 

Again  she  stopped,  memory  failing,  and  began  to 
lose  her  temper. 

"It's  Jo!  You  simply  can't  play  with  him! 
When  I  say  'wind !'  we  ought  to  run.  Jo  drags  and 
drags !  Are  you  going  to  run,  yes  or  no,  when  it's 
the  wind?" 

She  shook  Jo,  who  gave  Zine  a  kick,  and  the 
game  was  broken  up. 

Madeleine  turned  to  look: 

"Well?    Aren't  you  going  to  go  on  playing?" 

"It's  Jo's  fault!"  said  Lalie.  "He  has  broken 
one  of  Zinc's  legs  .  .  .  And  he  won't  do  anything 
but  drag  and  drag!" 

Jo  said  nothing  but  went  to  hide  behind  Made- 
leine's skirts.  That  made  Lalie  jealous.  She  began 
rocking  her  doll  in  her  arms: 

"Come  here,  poor  little  Zine ! —  Lalie  loves  only 
Zine,  so  there!" 

"Is  that  so?    Don't  you  love  Nene  a  little  too?" 

"Yes,  I  do!"  said  the  little  girl,  running  to  the 
washing-plank  by  the  stream  and  starting  to  jump 
up  and  down  on  it  with  her  brother. 

Madeleine  kissed  them  both  in  turn,  holding  her 
hands  back  so  as  not  to  wet  their  clothes. 

"You'll  tumble  into  the  water,"  she  said,  "and 
you'll  make  me  fall  in  too ! —  Run  away,  now !" 


NENE  163 

"Will  you  dance  with  us?"  begged  Lalie:  "Come 
on!  I'll  take  your  hand,  and  you  can  hold  Zine 
on  the  other  side." 

"Jo,  too,"  said  the  baby. 

Madeleine  hugged  them  both  between  her  elbows, 
hands  held  away. 

"I  haven't  time  to-day!  I  have  to  wash  your 
pinafores  and  stockings,  you  know." 

"I  wish  somebody'd  play !"  said  Lalie. 

"There,  there !  Start  your  dance  again.  I'll  sing 
for  you !" 

The  little  girl  clapped  her  hands. 

'"'All  right!  Come  on,  Jo!  Come  on,  Zine!  Sing 
the  wind  song,  Nene." 

Madeleine  began  to  sing : 

The  King's  son  comes  and  aims  his  gun. — 
Lazily,  lazily  sways  the  wind. — 

He  kills  my  duck,  the  bad  King's  son! 
Merrily,  merrily  plays  the  wind, 
Lazily,  lazily  sways  the  wind. 

"Go  on!"  called  Lalie.    "Go  on,  Nene!" 
Madeleine  continued,  marking  the  measure  with 
her  beetle  and  not  losing  a  minute  with  her  wash : 

The  black  drake  swims  now  all  alone.—' 

Lazily,  lazily  sways  the  wind. — 
You  wicked  Prince,  see  what  you've  done! 

Merrily,  merrily  plays  the  wind, 

Lazily,  lazily  sways  the  wind. 

"Go  on!    Go  on!    We're  having  fun  now!" 
Madeleine  thought: 
"They'll  drive  me  crazy!" 


164  NENE 

And  her  eyes  danced  with  laughter. 

She  got  to  the  end  of  the  song  and  began  it  all 
over  again.  When  she  turned  to  see  how  the  game 
was  going,  she  found  that  the  children  weren't  lis- 
tening any  more. 

Lalie  had  seated  Zine,  whose  knees  wouldn't 
bend,  and  was  making  her  recite  her  rosary.  Jo  was 
busy  pulling  up  handfuls  of  grass,  grunting  at  every 
pull  with  the  effort  of  it,  and  sticking  out  his 
tongue. 

"I'm  like  a  blind  fiddler  who  strikes  up  a  dance 
after  the  wedding  guests  have  gone.  The  children 
have  more  sense  than  I;  if  they'd  kept  hopping 
around  all  this  time  they'd  have  been  in  a  sweat. 
Really  now,  I'm  just  a  fool !" 

She  took  her  time  wringing  out  some  clothes,  the 
better  to  listen  to  Lalie. 

"Before  long,  that  child  will  be  giving  me  ideas 
about  how  to  do  'most  everything  round  the  house." 

A  gust  of  pride  swelled  her  breast,  and  her  eyes 
became  vague,  and  her  thoughts  frisked  ahead  into 
the  years,  as  spry  as  a  yearling. 

"When  Jo  is  grown  up,  I'll  be  an  old  woman. 
Perhaps  I  won't  be  at  the  Moulinettes  any  more — 
Lalie'll  have  taken  my  place. —  Who  knows  where 
I'll  be?  Jo'll  come  to  see  me  and  I'll  make  him  a 
cup  of  coffee.—  He'll  go  away  for  his  service  in 
the  army,  but  he'll  get  furloughs. —  'Hello,  Nene ! 
So  you're  still  at  your  spinning  wheel!' —  His 


NENE  165 

sabre'll  drag,  clatter,  clatter,  behind  him;  then  I'll 
ask  him  if  they're  giving  him  plenty  to  eat,  and 
I'll  give  him  a  silver  piece. —  And  then  he'll  have 
a  sweetheart  and  they'll  get  married. —  Dear  Lord, 
make  that  I  have  money  enough  so  he  won't  be 
ashamed  of  me  at  the  wedding,  and  so  I  can  make 
him  a  fine  present !" 

She  gave  a  bunch  of  clothes  their  final  wring  and 
bent  again  over  her  wash. 

It  was  a  beautiful  place  for  washing.  The  lively 
little  stream  rippled  over  its  uneven  bed  with  a 
jingling  as  of  tiny  bells.  Above  the  rubbing  plank 
the  water  was  so  clear  that  the  bottom  was  plainly 
visible.  Schools  of  minnows  sailed  across  it,  coming 
up  close  to  the  surface  at  times  and  there  whirling 
round  and  round,  all  together. 

Madeleine  thought: 

"Perhaps  the  little  things  are  dancing  a  round 
too,  and  their  mother  leads  the  game  from  down 
below.  How  pretty  all  God's  creatures  are  when 
they're  young. —  I'd  like  to  know  where  the 
mother  minnow  is,  and  if  she  is  looking  out  for  her 
children." 

Madeleine  went  about  her  work  with  the  quick, 
telling  movements  of  the  experienced  washerwoman. 
She  wasn't  afraid  of  wetting  her  arms  nor  of  dash- 
ing the  spray  hi  her  face.  To  save  the  clothes  from 
wearing  out  too  quickly,  she  rubbed  them  between 
her  hands  instead  of  on  the  board  and  she  was  very 


i66  N  E  N  E 

saving  with  the  soap.  She  did  the  rinsing  quickly, 
shaking  out  the  linen  with  a  lively  snap  that  flung  up 
the  ends  of  it  as  high  as  her  face. 

She  had  washed  first  the  men's  clothes  and  the 
kitchen  towels;  remained  the  children's  little  things, 
and  these  she  wanted  particularly  clean.  On  the 
following  Sunday  their  cousin  whose  farm  was 
called  "L'Ouchette,"  or  Little  Pasture,  was  giv- 
ing a  dinner.  Michael  could  not  go,  but  Madeleine 
was  to  take  the  children  there.  She  meant  to  do 
everything  possible  to  make  Jo  and  Lalie  look  hand- 
somer than  the  other  children. 

So  she  spread  a  petticoat  of  flowered  stuff  over 
her  board  and  began  to  soap  it  with  great  care ;  then 
she  rubbed  it  a  long  while,  but  very  gently.  This 
was  the  kind  of  work  she  enjoyed,  and  she  would 
have  liked  to  prolong  it. 

Merrily,   merrily   plays  the  wind, 
Lazily,  lazily  sways  the  wind  .  .  » 

The  roundelay  had  come  back  to  her  lips,  as  sweet 
as  a  chocolate  drop.  On  she  went,  rubbing,  rub- 
bing; between  her  big  fingers  the  thin  stuff  disap- 
peared in  a  mass  of  foamy  suds. 

Zine  having  finished  reciting  her  rosary,  Lalie 
had  laid  her  flat  on  her  back,  pretending  the  poor 
thing  was  very  ill,  and  had  gone  to  fetch  Jo.  He 
had  come  with  a  bunch  of  grass  in  both  his  fists. 

"Jo,  let's  play  Zine  has  a  tummy-ache.     I'll  be 


NENE  167 

her  mamma;  I'll  rock  her  on  my  lap — you'll  bring 
her  some  tisane.  Let's  play  like  that!" 

Jo  was  not  in  a  mood  for  it  and  shook  his  head. 

"Nene  didn't  say!" 

"Never  mind ! — Zine  will  cry.  I'll  dry  her  eyes 
and  wipe  her  nose." 

"Nene  didn't  say!" 

Lalie  pulled  Jo  by  the  arm. 

"You're  a  bad  boy,  that's  what  you  are!" 

Jo  tried  to  give  Zine  a  kick;  he  didn't  reach  her 
because  she  was  lying  flat  on  the  grass  and  he  lifted 
his  foot  very  high,  intending  to  kick  hard.  So  he 
leaned  down  quickly  and  rubbed  Zinc's  face  with  a 
handful  of  grass. 

Lalie  gave  him  a  push  that  made  him  roll  over. 
Jo  set  up  a  howl  and  Lalie  howled  the  louder. 

"Nene  ."'cried  Jo. 

"Nene !    Nene !"  cried  Lalie. 

Madeleine  sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran  towards 
them,  with  her  hands  all  white  with  suds. 

Whatever  she  was  doing,  now-a-days,  she  dropped 
everything  the  minute  the  children  cried  for  her. 
It  made  her  lose  much  time  every  day  and  she  re- 
proached herself  for  it,  but  that  never  kept  her  from 
doing  it  again;  their  cries  echoed  in  her  breast;  they 
hurt  her. 

"Yes,  they'll  drive  me  crazy  all  right,  poor  dar- 
lings!" 

She  wiped  her  hands  and  covered  the  children 


i68  NENE 

with  hugs  and  kisses.  Then  she  joined  in  their 
game,  played  being  Zinc's  mamma,  while  Lalie 
showed  Jo  what  to  do  with  the  tisane. 

When  they  were  well  started  again,  she  ran  back 
to  her  work.  Time  was  flying;  she  was  all  upset 
about  having  wasted  those  few  moments. 

"If  I  had  a  mistress,  she'd  give  me  a  fine  scold- 
ing!—  Playing  with  dolls — that's  going  too  far! 
Well,  now  I'd  better  hurry  and  get  done !" 

She  plunged  her  arms  into  the  stream  and  began 
rinsing  one  of  Lalie's  little  shifts  hi  lively  fashion. 
But  no,  it  wouldn't  do  to  hurry  over  work  like  this ! 
As  she  was  wringing  it  out,  she  saw  the  water  drip- 
ping still  soapy  from  it;  so  she  rinsed  it  all  over 
again.  How  soft  the  fine  wisp  felt  to  her  hands! 

"Little  shift,  come  out  nice  and  white.  Pretty 
lace,  I'll  dip  you  in  starch  so  you'll  stand  out  as 
neat  as  a  daisy's  little  collar." 

"Ha-a-h!"  ' 

A  scream  rose  from  near  by,  along  the  stream, 
while  Lalie  called  out  in  great  fright : 

"Nene!    Nene!" 

Madeleine  was  up  in  a  flash,  her  legs  shaking,  her 
heart  standing  still.  The  baby  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen. 

"Jo,  where  are  you?    Jo!" 

Lalie  pointed  to  the  stream.  Another,  sharper 
scream  pierced  the  air. 

Madeleine  rushed  forward,  bumping  against  her 


N  E  N  E  169 

tressel  and  spilling  all  the  clean  clothes  in  the  mud, 
leaving  her  wooden  shoes  behind  so  she  could  run 
faster. 

Jo  had  fallen  into  the  stream.  Fortunately  he 
had  picked  out  a  calm  spot.  Two  yards  further  on, 
the  current  would  have  tossed  him,  but  here  his 
head  was  above  water,  poor  duckling,  and  God 
knows  if  he  didn't  open  his  bill ! 

Madeleine  pulled  him  out  on  the  grass  and  took 
off  his  clothes.  He  was  yelling  his  head  off,  and  he 
would  have  yelled  still  louder  if  he  hadn't  been 
shivering  so  with  cold.  When  she  had  him  lying 
naked  in  the  grass,  he  went  right  on  yelling  while 
Madeleine  rubbed  his  back  to  warm  him.  She  her- 
self was  whiter  than  a  sheet. 

"He's  frozen  to  the  bone !  Pray  God  he  doesn't 
fall  ill,  now!" 

She  untied  her  apron  to  wrap  around  the  baby, 
but  it  was  wet.  There  was  nothing  at  hand  but 
her  skirt  that  was  dry  and  woolly.  Not  for  an  in- 
stant did  she  hesitate,  nor  even  glance  up  to  see  if 
there  was  anyone  in  sight :  her  hands  flew  to  take  off 
her  skirt  and  throw  it  over  the  baby  like  a  bell. 
Then,  finding  herself  with  nothing  on  but  a  chemise, 
she  rushed  to  the  overturned  tressel  and  tied  one 
of  the  newly  washed  petticoats  around  her  waist. 

"Come,  little  Jo.  Let's  run  home!  Are  you 
still  cold?" 

She  ran  to  the  house,  taking  the  shortest  way, 


i7o  NENE 

jumping  across  the  ditches.  As  she  passed  by  a 
hedge,  a  thorn  buried  itself  so  deep  in  her  bare  heel 
that  her  heart  went  cold  and  tears  shot  to  her  eyes. 
But  she  ran  on,  limping,  with  her  wet  petticoat  slap- 
ping about  her  legs.  Crossing  the  goat-pasture,  her 
foot  sank  ankle-deep  in  a  manure  drain,  but  on  she 
went. 

The  baby  had  quieted  down  now,  feeling  warm 
and  at  ease  in  the  folds  of  the  soft  woollen  skirt ;  her 
running  jogged  him  and  he  enjoyed  it  hugely.  When 
Madeleine  reached  the  house  and  wanted  to  put  him 
to  bed,  he  protested  and  struggled  and  clung  to  her 
neck. 

"More  run,  Nene,  more  run !" 

But  this  time  she  did  not  give  in,  she  was  too 
afraid  he  might  have  caught  a  chill.  She  put  Him 
in  his  cradle  and  warmed  him  between  two  pillows. 
Then  she  dressed  him  in  dry  clothes  and  his  Sun- 
day smock. 

"Are  you  still  cold,  Jo,  darling?  If  you  are,  I'll 
heat  you  some  sugared  wine." 

"Yes,  Jo  is  cold." 

She  ran  to  get  the  sugar,  the  spirit  lamp,  the 
bottle  of  wine. 

"There,  now!  Drink,  darling!  Does  it  taste 
good?" 

Jo  kept  his  nose  in  his  cup  and  replied  between 
swallows : 

"Jo'll  do  it  again!" 


NENE  171 

Madeleine  bent  over  him,  worried. 
"What's  that?    What  will  you  do  again?" 
"The  water — Jo'll  fall  in  again!"  he  said  with  a 
determined  air. 


CHAPTER  II 

NEXT  day  Madeleine  had  to  do  her  wash  all 
over  again,  and  every  day,  that  week,  she 
had  to  sit  up  very  late  in  order  to  make  up  for  lost 
time. 

When  the  children's  clothes  were  all  ready,  Mad- 
eleine was  not  yet  satisfied.  She  remembered  a  din- 
ner Corbier  had  given  before  the  death  of  his  father. 
The  little  cousins  had  come  dressed  up  with  all 
sorts  of  ribbons  and  furbelows,  for  their  mother 
thought  much  of  appearance;  but  they  had  also 
brought  some  aprons  along,  so  they  could  play  with- 
out soiling  their  finery,  and  their  mother  had  said 
pointedly : 

"You've  got  to  be  careful  and  watch  out  for 
everything.  If  you  don't,  you  can't  make  ends 
meet." 

Madeleine  thought : 

"She's  putting  on  airs  for  my  benefit!  She's 
welcome !  But  with  all  her  watching  out,  she's  only 
a  braggart;  you  don't  need  aprons  with  so  much  lace 
trimming  to  keep  a  cotton  dress  from  being  mussed 
up." 

Yes,  that  is  what  she  had  said  to  herself  at  the 
time. 

But  now  the  incident  bothered  her;  not  for  her- 

172 


NENE  173 

self  but  for  the  children,  who  must  not  stand  be- 
hind the  others  in  anything. 

That  Friday  a  passing  pedlar  knocked  at  the 
door  and  offered  his  wares  to  Madeleine. 

"I've  got  some  grand  aprons — the  latest  style. — 
You  ought  to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity, 
Ma'am!" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Madeleine,  "I'm  not  in  need 
of  anything." 

The  pedlar,  who  knew  his  business,  pointed  to 
Lalie  and  Jo. 

"Are  these  two  all  you  have,  Ma'am?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  turning  red. 

"It's  a  good  beginning!  They're  pretty  little 
dears.  Don't  you  want  to  buy  them  anything? 
Come  and  look  at  what  I've  got,  anyhow." 

Madeleine  followed  him  out  to  the  road;  he  had 
a  big  cart  standing  there,  all  filled  with  new  goods. 

"I  might  perhaps  take  two  smocks,"  said  Made- 
leine. 

"Good  quality,  and  up  to  date  style,  of  course?" 

"Of  course,"  she  replied. 

"Here  you  are — and  here  are  some  more — and 
just  have  a  look  at  these!" 

Such  piles  he  displayed  for  her! — small  ones, 
large  ones, — red  and  green  and  blue. 

"Make  your  choice,  Ma'am.  But  if  you  want 
my  advice,  Ma'am:  I  think  these  here  are  the  best 
in  every  way." 


174  N  E  N  E 

He  held  up  a  pretty  smock  of  unbleached  linen 
with  embroidery  on  the  sleeves  and  little  figures, 
done  in  all  colors,  dancing  along  the  hem.  This  was 
the  very  smock  Madeleine's  eye  had  also  picked  out. 

"It'll  cost  too  much,"  she  said. 

"Not  at  all,  Ma'am — only  two  francs  seventy- 
five!  I'll  let  you  have  two  of  them,  all  ready  to 
wear,  for  five  francs.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Oh,  it's  too  much!"  she  said,  but  her  tone  con- 
sented. 

She  went  into  the  house  to  get  the  money. 

Five  francs !  Such  a  lot  of  money !  Nor  was  it 
a  necessary  expense  just  then. 

She  opened  the  drawer  where  Michael's  purse  was 
kept.  Five  Francs!  Of  course,  Michael  needn't 
know  about  it;  he  never  asked  accounts  of  the  pur- 
chases she  made,  never  thought  of  inquiring  into  the 
price  she  had  paid  for  this  thing  or  that.  She  took 
out  a  five-franc  piece  and  closed  the  drawer. 

"No,  I  won't,  after  all !  I  want  to  pay  for  this 
out  of  my  own  money." 

She  put  back  Michael's  coin  and  took  her  own 
purse  out  with  her. 

The  pedlar  had  the  smocks  already  wrapped. 

"You  ought  to  throw  in  two  little  handkerchiefs 
to  put  in  the  pockets." 

"I  couldn't  possibly,  Ma'am. —  But  I'll  sell  you 
some  at  cost  price." 

Madeleine  paid  for  the  smocks  and  the  handker- 


NENE  175 

chiefs.  And  then  she  bought  a  pretty  red  silk  rib- 
bon for  Lalie's  hair;  and  then  two  pairs  of  fine  open- 
work stockings. 

"You  empty  my  purse !"  she  told  the  pedlar,  and 
laughed. 

"The  pedlar  replied: 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  were  sorry!  You  are 
quite  right,  too! —  I  understand:  I  have  children 
of  my  own." 

"Oh!    Do  you  live  far  from  here?" 

"I  should  say  so! " 

The  pedlar  flushed  a  little. 

"I  should  say  so!  I'm  from  Auvergne.  I've  got 
four  kids  there.  It  ain't  easy  for  me  to  go  'way  an* 
leave  'em,  I  c'n  jus'  tell  ye  that!" 

"Still, — a  father  going  away,"  said  Madeleine, 
"that  isn't  so  bad, — but  if  their  mother  had  to  go 
away  and  leave  them,  like  that !" 

"Their  mother!  Ah,  yes,  their  mother! —  She 
left  'em,  all  right!" 

"Is  she  dead?' 

"No — cleared  out,  that's  all Where  is  she 

now?  Don't  ask  me!" 

His  alert  business  air  had  dropped  from  him; 
he  was  just  a  poor  soul  shaken  by  sorrow,  and  so 
he  reverted  to  his  native  country  speech. 

"She  left,  the  slut — quit  'em  just  like  that! — 
four  of  'em  as  they  be! —  An'  me — I've  got  to 
keep  me  business  goin',  I  have ! —  The  two  littlest 


176  NENE 

be  just  like  yours:  the  oldest,  he's  goin*  most 
blind.  Can  I  be  lookin'  after  him?  Can  I  be 
makin'  him  all  right  again? —  Lord  'n  Heaven! 
we  ain't  all  got  a  happy  lot!" 

Meanwhile  he  had  finished  folding  away  his 
goods.  His  back  straightened  as  if  he  were  ashamed 
of  having  let  himself  go  like  this  before  a  stranger, 
and,  without  a  trace  of  his  country  accent,  he  said : 

"Thank  you,  Ma'am;  if  I  come  back  this  way,  I 
hope  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  look  at  my  goods 
again." 

Then,  having  politely  raised  his  cap  to  her,  he 
took  his  whip  and  the  horses  were  off. 

Madeleine  grumbled  as  she  walked  back  to  the 
house. 

"Women  like  that, — they  ought  to  be  sent  to 
the  galleys.  I'm  glad  there  aren't  many  of  them 
in  these  parts.  What  a  place  it  must  be — that 
Auvergne !" 


CHAPTER  III 

THAT  Sunday  was  a  bright,  sunny  day.    The 
sky  was  blue,  the  sun  beamed  festively. 

The  breeze  was  gently  playful,  running  in  ripples 
over  the  green  fields  spiked  with  yellow,  or  shaking 
the  ears  one  by  one  as  if  to  count  them;  and  then 
it  blew  upward  again  to  frolic  among  the  trees. 

The  hedges  had  dressed  themselves  up  in  their 
new  leaves.  Flowers  were  showing  their  prettiest 
wide-open  faces  all  round  about.  Even  the  poor 
little  grasses  by  the  wayside  had  prinked  themselves 
— watch  them  straightening  up  on  their  stalks  and 
trying  to  shine!  And  the  birds  were  carolling  like 
mad. 

Madeleine  walked  slowly,  holding  Jo  by  the 
hand ;  from  time  to  time  she  picked  him  up  and  car- 
ried him  on  her  arm  a  little  way.  Lalie  was  trotting 
in  front,  with  her  curly  hair  whipping  her  shoul- 
ders. 

A  cuckoo  was  singing  in  a  cherry  tree  at  the  turn 
of  the  road;  Lalie  stole  up  on  tiptoe  to  try  and  see 
the  bird,  but  he  flew  away  as  she  came  on  and 
perched  somewhere  far  away. 

"Coo-coo!     Coo-coo!" 

The  little  girl  turned  round  with  shining  eyes: 
177 


178  NENE 

"Nene!  Do  you  hear  that  one*?  I  believe  I 
frightened  him  away!" 

She  babbled  on,  dancing  in  the  sunshine : 

"I'm  happy!  Come,  Jo!  Let's  play!  Come 
along,  both  of  you !" 

Jo  scampered  to  his  sister  and  made  chorus  with 
her,  calling: 

"Coo-coo!    Coo-coo!    Where  are  you,  coo-coo1?" 

Madeleine  watched  them  running  ahead  of  her 
and  thought  them  as  handsome  as  the  children  of 
the  rich. 

She  had  put  the  new  stockings  on  them  and  their 
little  legs  showed  through.  At  the  last  moment  she 
had  sewed  two  double  rows  of  pearl  buttons  on 
Jo's  short  little  trousers;  and  on  her  arm  she  was 
carrying  the  smocks  she  had  bought  of  the  ped- 
lar. 

She,  too,  had  dressed  up.  She  had  put  on  her 
Sunday  skirt  and  her  best  silk  apron.  When  there 
was  a  puff  of  wind,  the  bands  of  her  muslin  cap 
flipped  about  her  face.  She  walked  with  her  head 
held  high  and  felt  as  happy  as  could  be. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  children  that  day,  visit- 
ing the  cousin  of  the  Little  Pasture.  Lalie  and 
Jo  were  the  prettiest  among  them.  However  hard 
it  was  for  them,  the  women  complimented  Made- 
leine, who  thereupon  lifted  her  head  the  higher. 
They  had  given  her  a  place  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
a  little  off  from  the  others,  because  she  was  not  one 


NENE  179 

of  the  family.  She  took  Jo  on  her  lap  and  made  him 
eat  from  her  plate,  saying: 

"He's  used  to  it;  otherwise  he  wouldn't  eat  a 
thing." 

She  talked  gaily,  held  up  her.  end  against  the 
jesting  of  the  men;  and  told  the  story  of  the 
Auvergne  woman  who  had  left  her  children. 

The  cousin  asked  if  it  was  that  woman's  husband 
who  had  sold  her  the  children's  clothes. 

"Not  all  of  them,"  replied  Madeleine,  "but 
some." 

The  cousin  pinched  her  mouth: 

"I  went  out  to  his  cart,  too,  but  his  prices  were 
too  high.  We  can't  afford  to  throw  away  money,  in 
this  family!" 

Madeleine  wanted  to  laugh. 

"She's  always  the  same,  this  one!"  she  thought. 
"Did  I  ask  her  for  the  money  to  pay  for  this  finery*? 
— When  I  want  money,  I  know  where  to  look  for 
it!" 

All  through  the  day  this  thought  gladdened  her 
heart.  And  even  that  evening,  on  the  way  back  to 
the  Moulinettes,  she  mumbled  to  herself: 

"I've  got  money  of  my  own,  I  have !  If  it  suits 
me  to  waste  it,  what  of  it? —  If  it's  my  pleas- 
ure?—  I've  got  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs  in  the 
savings  bank. —  What  are  they  for,  I'd  like  to 
know,  these  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs?  What 
did  I  save  them  for!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

t 

FOR  some  time  Madeleine  was  perfectly  satis- 
fied with  life. 

Trooper  had  applied  for  another  postman's  job 
and  while  he  was  waiting  for  it  he  worked  at  a  few 
odd  jobs,  and  there  was  no  more  talk  about  quarrels 
and  drinking  bouts. 

At  the  Moulinettes,  Michael  was  spending  very 
little  time  indoors;  even  on  Sundays  he  was  rarely 
seen  about.  Madeleine  was  glad  of  it. 

"He's  having  a  good  time,"  she  thought.  "He 
doesn't  mean  anything  by  it. —  So  much  the  better 
for  me,  then!  He  won't  be  thinking  of  getting 
married  again. —  That  little  dressmaker  surely 
wouldn't  want  my  place  here !" 

In  truth,  Madeleine  had  been  rather  fearful  for 
a  while;  but  now  she  laughed  at  herself  for  having 
taken  seriously  such  seemingly  groundless  fears. 

Michael  did  not  talk  to  her  often,  but  always  in 
a  friendly  way.  He  left  her  entirely  free;  she  kept 
his  purse,  did  the  buying  and  selling  as  she  saw  fit. 
Sometimes  she  tried  to  make  him  go  over  her  ac- 
counts, but  he  only  shook  his  head  laughingly  and 
said : 

"Never  mind !    Never  mind !    I  trust  you !" 

If  he  had  listened  to  her,  however,  he  might  have 

i  So 


NENE  181 

noticed  that  she  was  cheating.  For  instance,  when 
she  told  him  she  had  bought  a  pair  of  clogs  for  Jo 
for  five  francs,  he  wouldn't  have  needed  to  look 
very  hard  to  see  that  the  clogs  were  a  very  pretty 
pair  of  shoes,  worth  at  least  double  that  sum. 

Also,  he  wouldn't  have  been  dense  enough  to 
believe  that  in  a  whole  month  she  had  bought  only 
one  cake  of  chocolate  at  the  grocery,  when  the  chil- 
dren were  always  having  their  hands  full  of  dainties. 

But  nothing  roused  his  suspicion.  The  house- 
work was  done,  the  children  were  thriving,  the  farm 
was  beginning  to  prosper  again;  that  was  all  that 
mattered  to  him.  His  mind  was  much  too  busy 
with  outside  concerns  to  look  very  closely  at  how 
things  were  managed  at  home. 

Madeleine  noticed  this  indifference  on  his  part 
and  slyly  took  advantage  of  it. 

In  the  drawer  below  the  clothes-press  two  purses 
lay  side  by  side.  For  all  ordinary  purchases,  all 
necessary  expenses,  she  dipped  into  Michael's;  but 
when  it  was  a  matter  of  doing  something  special 
for  the  children,  she  opened  her  own.  She  paid  out 
of  her  own  money  for  everything  like  dainties,  pleas- 
ures or  unessential  finery.  It  was  so  easy  for  her  to 
buy  things  in  this  way  and  the  joy  of  the  children 
was  like  sunshine  in  her  heart. 

Only  one  thing  kept  her  from  going  beyond  all 
bounds:  her  purse  was  slender;  very  soon  it  would 
be  empty. 


182  N  E  N  E 

Some  years  past  she  had  stopped  handing  her 
wages  over  to  her  mother,  but  made  her  a  small 
allowance,  instead,  to  help  her  out.  She  had  also 
sent  some  money  to  her  brother  while  he  was  doing 
his  military  service,  and  even  now  she  slipped  him 
a  coin,  every  once  in  a  while.  So  she  couldn't  save 
up  such  a  lot. 

Of  course  she  had  those  two  hundred  and  fifty 
francs  tucked  away  in  the  savings  bank,  but  she 
wasn't  yet  thinking  of  drawing  them  out.  She  made 
her  accounts: 

"I  have  eight  francs  left.  All-Saints  day's  com- 
ing in  two  months,  and  then  Corbier  will  give  me 
my  wages. —  If  I  don't  buy  anything  for  myself, 
I  can  manage. —  I'll  have  to  do  with  a  little  less 
pleasure  for  the  children,  that's  all. —  But  next 
winter  I'll  catch  up !" 

One  Sunday,  walking  with  the  children  along  the 
road  to  Saint-Ambroise,  she  came  across  a  man 
named  Bouju,  a  bachelor  of  thirty-five  or  so,  who 
was  distantly  related  to  her.  While  walking  on 
beside  her,  he  told  her  about  his  affairs,  his  tastes 
and  how  much  he  had  been  able  to  save  up.  Then 
he  suggested  that  she  would  be  wise  to  get  married, 
that  he  liked  her  very  much,  and  that — well,  here 
he  was,  and  would  she  take  him? 

"My  goodness!  If  I  ever  expected  anything  like 
this !" 

She  had  stopped  walking,  taken  utterly  by  sur- 


N  E  N  E  183 

prise,  and  this  idea  of  marriage  struck  her  as  so 
funny  that  she  began  to  laugh. 

Oh,  yes,  this  man  Bouju  looked  honest  enough, 
and  her  own  heart  was  quite  free — but  all  the  same, 
it  gave  her  a  good  laugh. 


CHAPTER  V 

fT^HERE  came   a  morning  when  Madeleine's 
JL    heart  was  heavy.     The  day  before  she  had 
been  to  Saint-Ambroise  and  had  brought  the  chil- 
dren nothing  but  a  pound  of  shortbread;  and  they 
had  sniffed  at  the  dainty  that  used  to  content  them. 

Lalie,  especially,  had  shown  bad  temper,  but  that 
was  because  she  had  asked  Madeleine  to  buy  her  a 
doll,  a  big  doll  that  stood  in  Mme.  Blanchevirain's 
show-window  in  the  village.  And  she  had  framed 
her  demand  in  exactly  the  right  way  for  effect,  say- 
ing: 

"Germaine  of  the  Little  Pasture  has  three 
dolls, — yes,  she  has !  Her  mother  buys  her  all  the 
dolls  she  wants. —  And  I  haven't  got  a  single  one, 
since  Zinc's  head  is  broken." 

Madeleine's  heart  was  very  heavy  and  very  trou- 
bled. Still,  she  knew  she  had  done  the  right  thing. 
All  she  had  left  was  five  francs,  and  the  doll — for 
of  course  she  had  priced  it! — cost  three  francs.  It 
would  have  been  folly  to  buy  it,  for  All-Saints  day 
was  still  far  away,  and  how  far  would  two  misera- 
ble francs  take  her! 

But  just  think  of  this  girl,  Germaine!     Three 

dolls  of  her  own!    Why  not  ten?    What  could  she 

184 


N  E  N  E  185 

be  doing  with  her  three  dolls'?  Her  mother  had 
simply  bought  them  for  her  to  show  off  with ! 

Madeleine  worked  herself  into  a  temper. 

"That  woman,  I  know  her!  She's  just  a  brag- 
gart !  She  makes  me  tired,  she  does !  Every  chance 
she  sees  me,  she  gives  me  a  dig !  .  .  .  Three  dolls ! 
The  idea  of  throwing  money  away  like  that ! —  All 
right,  let  her!  Let  her  buy  all  she  wants!  ...  it 
won't  make  her  big  Germaine  any  the  cleverer  nor 
any  the  prettier,  either!  .  .  .  Just  let  her  try  and 
compare  her  with  Lalie !  ...  As  soon  as  All-Saints 
day  comes  around,  if  I  don't  buy  a  doll  that  costs 
all  of  five  francs,  I'll  lose  my  name.  Just  you  wait ! 
I'll  show  you! " 

She  was  grumbling  away  like  this  while  stirring 
up  the  fire  and  wielding  the  tongs  with  noisy  energy. 

A  big  voice  rang  out  behind  her : 

"Well,  well!     Why  all  this  racket*?" 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  blushing;  but  as  she 
recognised  her  brother  she  burst  out  laughing. 

He  had  come  up  the  path  without  her  hearing 
him  and  now  he  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"It's  you,"  she  said;  "come  in." 

He  came  up  to  her  to  give  her  a  kiss  and  laughed 
as  he  said: 

"What  a  fine  morning!  The  sun's  shining  like 
a  benediction." 

At  the  back  of  his  blue  eyes,  however,  some  sort 
of  uneasiness  was  prowling.  Madeleine  did  not 


i86  NENE 

notice  it  and  was  honestly  glad  to  see  him  in  sucK 
a  pleasant  mood. 

"Where  are  you  bound  for,  passing  this  way,  big 
brotherf 

"Down  valley,  to  Rivard's  place.  He  sent  for 
me,  and  I  thought  I'd  pass  round  this  way  to  see 
how  you  are  getting  along;  you're  making  yourself 
so  scarce  at  Le  Coudray." 

"I've  got  my  hands  full,  you  see;  and  with  the 
children  it's  hard  to  get  away." 

Trooper  had  taken  a  seat.  For  a  while  he  talked 
about  his  affairs.  He  had  been  quite  busy  for  some 
time  past,  and  this  week  too  he  expected  to  have 
work  every  day. 

Madeleine  stopped  working;  an  idea  was  trotting 
through  her  head. 

"No  doubt  he's  got  some  money — he'd  be  glad  to 
let  me  have  some,  I'm  sure — I'd  only  need  to  ask." 

Then  the  thought  came  to  her  that  it  would  be 
wrong  of  her  to  ask; — that  she  wouldn't  dare, 
young  and  strong  as  she  was,  to  take  money  from 
this  poor  brother  who  had  so  much  trouble  earning 
his  bread. 

"Still,  I've  been  giving  him  money,  even  before 
he  was  crippled. —  Besides,  after  All-Saints  day, 
I'd  return  it. —  I  could  go  right  away  to  Mme. 
Blanchevirain  and  get  the  doll  with  the  eyes  that 
close,  the  one  that  costs  three  francs. —  Wouldn't 
Lalie  be  glad,  though !" 


N  E  N  E  187 

She  dwelled  on  the  thought  of  it,  hands  idle  and 
eyes  shining.  She  wasn't  listening  to  her  brother 
any  more ;  temptation  was  upon  her  like  a  thunder- 
cloud. 

Suddenly  she  made  her  decision : 

"Well,  now,  big  brother,  if  you're  working  every 
day,  you  ought  to  be  pretty  well  off,  at  present?" 

He  gave  a  little  start  and  his  thoughts  followed 
hers  in  this  new  direction. 

"Well  off?  Goodness,  no!—  It's  all  I  can  do 
to  earn  a  living!" 

He  lowered  his  eyes,  repeating: 

"It's  all  I  can  do — all  I  can  do! — I  never  have 
a  penny  in  my  pocket." 

Usually  he  didn't  need  to  say  even  as  much  as 
that;  Madeleine  hardly  waited  for  a  hint  before 
slipping  him  a  coin.  To-day  she  made  no  move. 

"I'm  dressed  like  a  tramp;  see,  my  shoes  are 
falling  off  my  feet — I'm  crazy  for  a  smoke." 

Still  she  said  nothing.  Pale  and  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  he  stammered: 

"Madeleine,  listen  to  me. —  It's  hard  for  me  to 
say  this — Madeleine,  you  don't  happen  to  have  a 
little  money?" 

"Well,  now— of  all  things!" 

She  threw  this  at  him  in  an  angry  tone,  standing 
quite  motionless,  baffled  by  the  unexpected  shock. 

Surprise  at  her  attitude  made  him  speechless  for 
a  moment;  then  he  got  up. 


i88  N  E  N  E 

"Well,  sister,  I'll  say  good-bye,  then." 
But  he  had  not  gone  three  steps  before  Madeleine 
threw  herself  at  his  neck. 

"My  dear!  Don't  go  away! —  Wait  till  I  tell 
you  how  it  is. —  We  mustn't  quarrel,  you  and 
me! —  Money!  All  right,  I'll  give  you  some. — 
Sometimes  a  person  talks  before  thinking,  don't  you 


see!': 


She  held  him  tightly  in  her  strong  arms  and  forced 
him  to  sit  down  again. 

"Money — for  your  tobacco — of  course,  I'll  give 
you  some,  you  poor  old  dear!" 

She  had  fetched  her  purse  and  was  counting  out 
some  coppers,  one  by  one,  lingeringly. 

"There!    Fifteen  sous — will  that  be  enough?" 

He  replied  bitterly: 

"A  pack  of  tobacco  doesn't  cost  as  much  as  that." 

"That's  so,"  she  said. 

The  coppers  were  lined  up  on  the  table.  She  took 
away  five  of  them,  blushed- — and  put  them  back. 

She  laid  away  her  purse  immediately,  and  then, 
in  order  to  forget  the  incident  as  quickly  as  possible, 
she  began  to  talk  about  her  mother,  about  Fridoline, 
and  she  laughed  at  Tiennette  who  was  being  seen 
walking  out  with  Gideon.  But  he  stuck  to  his 
theme : 

"Madeleine,  you  didn't  understand — and  it  is 
my  fault.  I  didn't  explain  myself  right;  I  didn't 
tell  you  the  truth — I'm  not  craving  for  any  tobacco. 


N  E  N  E  189 

— As  for  money,  I'm  making  a  little  every  day — 
I've  got  some,  but  not  enough  for  what  I  want  it  for. 
Lend  me  twenty  francs — lend  me  ten  francs — lend 
me  just  five  francs,  will  you*?" 

"Five  francs!  Why,  that's  all  I  have!"  ex- 
claimed Madeleine. 

"I'll  give  it  back  to  you  when  I  get  a  job, — as 
I'll  give  you  back  all  you've  given  me  before." 

"You  won't  do  any  such  thing !  I  share  my  little 
bit  with  you,  big  brother,  and  that's  as  it  should  be. 
If  you  want  to  pay  me  back  for  what  I've  given  you, 
pay  me  back  in  affection." 

It  upset  her  to  see  him  shaking  there  before  her, 
and  she  came  to  him  and  said,  very  gently  and  very 
low: 

"John,  tell  me  all  about  it!  Something  is  tor- 
menting you.  Tell  me  your  trouble  and  I'll  comfort 
you. —  If  it's  money  you  want,  I've  got  a-plenty 
hi  the  savings  bank;  I'll  go  and  draw  out  some  for 
you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  His  words  came 
heavily,  brokenly: 

"Yes! — poor  sister!  Work!  Work  your  hands 
off,  work  your  eyes  out! — I'm  there, — waiting  to 
take  your  money  and  throw  it  to  the  winds;  and 
when  you  are  old,  you'll  live  on  charity !" 

"John,  don't  talk  like  that !    You're  hurting  me !" 

"Poor  sister! — do  you  want  to  know  where  goes 
the  money  you  give  me?  Go  to  Chantepie  and  ask 


190  N  E  N  E 

Violette,  the  dressmaker.  When  you  lay  eyes  on  her, 
look  her  over  from  head  to  foot;  look  at  her  belt 
with  the  silver  buckle,  look  at  her  fingers  and  her 
ears  and  her  neck  .  .  .  On  her  right  hand  she 
wears  a  gold  ring  set  with  brilliants;  I  bought  it 
for  her.  On  her  left  hand  she  has  two  more  rings, 
and  who  gave  her  those?  And  who's  given  her  the 
earrings  and  the  necklaces'?  It  wasn't  her  mother, 
nor  was  it  me !  And  yet,  I  love  her,  I  love  her." 

"But  you're  stark  mad,  you  poor  dear!" 

"I  love  her!  Yes,  I'm  mad,  I  know!  Yes,  open 
your  eyes  wide!  Look  at  me! —  I'm  bringing 
shame  on  the  family. —  One  of  these  days  I'll  end 
like  a  dangerous  animal." 

Madeleine  was  appalled  and  tried  to  raise  his 
head. 

"Don't  talk  like  this,  for  God's  sake!  What  is 
it  you  need"?  You  asked  for  money: — you'll  have 
it.  I'll  give  you  all  you  want; — only  don't  talk 
like  that — don't!" 

"Money!  yes,  give  me  some.  Give  me  five 
francs — It's  the  last  time  I'll  ask  you — I'm  short 
of  just  five  francs  to  buy  the  watch  she  wants." 

And  he  added,  utterly  crushed: 

"And  then,  someone  else  will  give  her  a  chain. — 
I'm  a  coward;  I'm  not  a  man;  just  as  you  said  once." 

Madeleine  emptied  her  purse  and,  without  a 
word,  slipped  the  money  into  his  pocket. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "and  now  I  must  be  on 


NENE  191 

my  way.  And  this  evening,  if  I've  finished  early 
enough  at  Rivard's,  I'll  go  and  buy  the  watch;  she'll 
have  it  to-morrow,  because  she's  working  at  Saint- 
Ambroise  this  week.  Didn't  you  see  her  pass  by 
this  morning?  Your  master's  sure  to  have  seen  her ! 
— Good-bye,  then — no,  don't  kiss  me, — no,  don't! 
I  don't  deserve  it." 

He  went  away  and  Madeleine  returned  to  her 
work,  with  tears  running  down  her  cheeks.  After  a 
minute  or  two,  Lalie  ran  in  and  stood  up  before  her : 

"You're  crying,  I  see!  It's  your  turn!  I  cried 
my  eyes  out  yesterday,  I  did !  The  Lord  has  pun- 
ished you:  that'll  teach  you! —  Now  are  you 
going  to  get  me  the  big  doll  at  Mme.  Blanche- 
virain's  shop?" 

Madeleine  leaned  down  to  the  little  girl  and 
hugged  her  passionately. 

"Yes,  darling,  I'll  go  and  get  it,  never  you  fear ! 
Let  them  all  do  their  darndest;  you'll  have  your 
doll." 

On  the  spur  of  the  moment  she  had  reached  this 
decision. 

At  noon,  she  told  Michael: 

"I'll  have  to  go  to  market  to-morrow.  We've  got 
some  twenty  pullets  ready  to  sell,  and  a  basketful 
of  butter,  and  some  eggs." 

He  said : 

"All  right.  I'll  tell  the  carter  to  come  and  fetch 
the  lot." 


CHAPTER  VI 

SO  next  day,  after  market,  Madeleine  went  to  the 
savings  bank  to  draw  out  twenty  francs,  out  of 
which  she  bought,  at  a  town  shop,  a  doll  that  was 
much  grander  than  the  one  at  Mme.  Blanchevirain's. 

Coming  back  home,  she  took  the  Saint-Ambroise 
road.  As  she  passed  through  the  village  she  saw 
through  an  open  window  two  young  seamstresses 
laughing  as  they  worked.  A  little  behind  them  she 
saw  another  girl,  a  tall  one,  standing  very  straight, 
scissors  in  hand ;  and  on  her  breast  there  hung  a  new 
and  shining  little  watch. 

Madeleine's  heart  heaved  with  anger. 

"She's  got  it !  She  got  it  already !  When  I  meet 
her,  I'll  tell  her  what  I  think  of  her!  I'll  teach  her, 
I  will,  to  rob  Lalie  and  Jo!" 

That  very  evening  she  watched  out  for  Violette, 
who  had  to  pass  by  the  Moulinettes  on  her  way 
home  to  Chantepie.  But  all  for  nothing;  neither 
that  evening  nor  the  next  nor  the  next  did  Violette 
come  by. 

But  on  Friday  evening,  as  Madeleine  was  picking 
vegetables  in  the  garden,  she  heard  voices  on  the 
road;  she  straightened  up  and  recognised  the  two 
girl  helpers,  who  came  along  chattering  and  seem- 

192 


N  E  N  E  193 

ingly  having  great  fun  over  something.  She  let 
them  get  out  of  sight  before  she  stepped  to  the  road- 
side. 

"Well,  now!"  she  mumbled. 

At  a  turning  a  short  distance  back,  Violette  was 
standing  before  Michael,  her  head  bent  flirtatiously. 

"All  right,"  said  Madeleine,  I'll  wait  for  her  a 
bit  farther  on." 

She  withdrew  noiselessly,  went  back  to  the  house, 
glanced  at  the  children  and  ran  out  the  back  way 
toward  the  pond. 

She  didn't  have  to  wait  long.  Violette  came  on 
at  a  swift  pace,  hurrying  to  overtake  her  girl  helpers. 
When  she  was  close  enough,  Madeleine  climbed  over 
a  low  fence  and  posted  herself  in  the  middle  of  the 
road. 

"Good  evening,  Mademoiselle  Violette!'* 

"Good  evening,"  replied  the  dressmaker,  turning 
a  bit  to  one  side  so  as  to  pass  by  quickly. 

Madeleine  went  on: 

"You  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry !" 

"So  I  am." 

"There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you,  though." 

"You?    Tome?" 

"Yes — and  I'm  not  doing  this  for  my  own  pleas- 
ure, and  maybe  it  won't  be  for  yours  either." 

"You  don't  say!"  said  Violette,  standing  still. 

She  said:  "You  don't  say!"  and  gave  a  short, 
dry,  mocking  laugh.  Her  eyes  glanced  over  Made- 


194  N  E  N  E 

leine  from  head  to  foot,  with  such  insolence  that 
Madeleine  asked  rather  angrily : 

"Why  are  you  looking  me  over  like  that?  Doesn't 
my  skirt  fit  me?" 

"Oh,  beautifully !  It's  quite  even  all  round.  My 
grandmother  used  to  wear  one  just  like  it,  and  she'd 
inherited  it." 

"You've  got  a  quick  tongue !" 

"At  your  service." 

For  quite  a  while  they  looked  each  other  straight 
in  the  eye;  then  Violette  threw  back  her  pretty, 
insolent  head: 

"May  I  ask,  in  turn,  what  you're  finding  about 
me  that  isn't  to  your  taste?" 

Madeleine  answered: 

"I  was  looking  at  your  watch.  I  think  it's 
pretty." 

"Would  you  like  to  see  it  closer?" 

"Thank  you,  no;  I  can  see  it  very  well;  it's  a 
new-fangled  watch;  it  isn't  an  heirloom  like  your 
grandmother's  skirt." 

"You  said  that  very  neatly! — but  whether  it's 
new-fangled  or  not  is  none  of  your  business." 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  I  happen  to  know  when 
you  got  that  watch  and  who  gave  it  to  you ! — And 
you  needn't  play  the  artless  either,  my  dear !" 

Violette  was  taken  aback ;  color  rose  to  her  cheeks 
and  her  thin  white  nostrils  quivered. 

"Well,  and  what  of  it?" 


NENE  195 

"You  haven't  got  much  self-respect !"  said 
Madeleine.  "That  watch  and  those  rings  you're 
wearing — you  never  paid  for  them !" 

The  girl  tossed  her  head  and  her  laugh  came  sharp 
as  the  crack  of  a  whip. 

"Indeed  I  did!"  she  said.    "I  paid  for  them!" 

Madeleine  gasped. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself*?  You've  com- 
mitted a  grievous  sin ! — If  your  mother  heard  you !" 

But  she  saw  that  impudence  was  sovereign  in  the 
girl's  black  eyes  and,  knowing  that  all  admonition 
would  be  wasted,  she  changed  her  tone. 

"From  now  on,  you'll  leave  my  brother  alone! 
Since  nothing  will  hold  you  back,  neither  shame, 
nor  religion " 

Violette  broke  in,  trying  to  down  her  speech: 

"Religion!  I've  got  as  much  religion  as  you 
have,  any  day!  You're  a  fine  one  to  boast  about 
your  religion !  Better  go  and  be  baptised,  first !" 

"...  and  since  you  don't  care  about  your 
mother's  feelings,  I'll  keep  my  eye  on  you!  Now, 
listen  to  me!  If  you  start  again  leading  him  on, 
I'll  mete  you  out  your  punishment  myself! — Oh, 
you  may  laugh!" 

"Indeed!  What  was  that  you  said?  You'll 
mete  me  out  my  punishment?  I'd  like  to  know 
how!  Maybe  you'll  beat  me  up? — You've  got  the 
muscle  to  do  it,  all  right — and  the  face! — No? — 


196  N  E  N  E 

you  won't  beat  me  up? — Well  then,  how  will  you 
go  about  it?' 

Yes,  how  would  she  go  about  it*?  Madeleine 
felt  confused  by  the  girl's  insolent  stare.  However, 
she  managed  to  say: 

"I'll  begin  by  warning  my  brother;  I'll  tell  him 
of  your  behaviour." 

"He  probably  knows  it  better  than  you !" 

"I'll  tell  him  that  on  the  very  day  he  gave  you 
that  watch  you  listened  to  another  suitor;  I'll  tell 
him  that  a  while  ago  I  saw  you  with  Michael 
Corbier." 

"Ah,  now  we're  coming  to  the  point !"  cried  Vio- 
lette.  "You're  jealous!  Why  didn't  you  say  so 
right  away?" 

"You're  wrong.  Leave  my  brother  in  peace  and, 
for  all  of  me,  you  can  go  your  own  way  where  it 
suits  you.  But  if  you  worry  him  again " 

"You'll  spy  on  me ! — You'll  use  every  means  of 
running  me  down  to  your  master ! — I  know  why !" 

Violette  had  come  close;  her  expression  was  so 
vicious  that  it  made  her  pretty  face  quite  ugly. 

"Others  have  been  jealous  of  me  before,  but  never 
yet  a  monkey-face  like  you !" 

Madeleine  let  this  pass  without  much  resentment. 
Violette  came  closer  still  and  said,  with  her  evil 
laugh : 

"Listen  to  me!  You're  not  up  to  this  game! — 
Since  nothing  will  hold  you  back — that's  the  way 


NENE  197 

you  talk,  isn't  it? — since  nothing  will  hold  you 
back,  neither  shame  nor  religion  nor  the  fear  of  your 
mother,  I'll  mete  you  out  your  punishment  myself! 
To  begin  with,  you'd  better  get  used  to  the  idea 
of  leaving  the  Moulinettes." 

Madeleine's  face  went  white  and  her  hands  crept 
up  to  her  throat. 

"What  do  you  say?    What  do  you  dare  to  say?" 

"You  needn't  take  on  and  start  yelling  like  that ! 
I'm  being  very  nice  about  it — I'm  giving  you  a 
month's  notice,  before  All-Saints — That  leaves  you 
plenty  of  time  to  look  for  another  place." 

"But  you  don't  know — you  can't  imagine " 

"Oh,  yes,  don't  you  fear !  I  know,  I  can  imagine; 
and  that's  just  why  I'll  make  you  leave.  Perhaps 
it'll  teach  you  to  mind  your  own  business." 

Madeleine  stammered,  strangling: 

"No,  you're  wrong,  it  isn't  what  you  think — I'm 
not  jealous,  God  knows! — It's  on  account  of  the 
children. — Oh,  you  couldn't  be  so  wicked !" 

"The  children?  Bah,  what  nonsense! — You're 
not  their  mother;  you're  nothing  to  them. — What's 
the  matter?  Are  you  going  to  beat  me?" 

"Shut  up! — Mademoiselle  Violette,  you  shut 
up!" 

"Mademoiselle  Violette,  at  present! — But  you 
can't  budge  me !  You'll  get  out,  my  dear,  and  when 
you're  out,  you'll  never  see  either  father  or  children 
again! — I'll  have  the  house  forbidden  to  you!" 


198  N  E  N  E 

"Ah!  I  wish  I  could  throttle  you,  you  wicked 
thing!" 

Madeleine  threw  out  her  hands. — But  the  girl 
walked  away  holding  her  glossy  little  head  erect, 
like  a  viper. 

"Madeleine  Clarandeau,  you  started  this,  and 
you'll  be  sorry ! — I'll  see  that  you  remember  me." 

Then  she  mumbled  to  herself: 

"Well,  my  good  Boiseriot,  who  thought  she  was 
going  to  give  so  much  trouble, — who  stopped  at 
nothing  to  fling  mud  at  her, — you'll  thank  me  for 
this  day's  work!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

ON  Monday,  Michael  started  the  offensive. 
From  early  morning  on,  he  tried  to  pick 
quarrels  with  Madeleine.    At  night  he  returned  to 
the  charge  without  the  shadow  of  a  reason,  not  even 
waiting  until  the  farm-hands  had  gone  away. 

The  following  days  it  was  the  same  song  over 
again.  A  mortal  apprehension  began  to  gnaw  at 
Madeleine's  heart.  From  time  to  time  she  tried  to 
buoy  herself  up : 

"He  wouldn't  dare;  he'd  have  to  find  a  good  rea- 
son for  sending  me  away. — Besides,  it  seems  to  me 
he's  beginning  to  calm  down." 

Then  Violette  passed  by  the  farm,  or  wrote  a 
letter,  and  right  away  the  bad  weather  was  on  her 
again. 

Madeleine  never  answered  Michael  back.  Most 
of  the  time  she  did  not  even  hear  what  he  said.  The 
blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks  and  as  quickly  back 
again;  her  heart  felt  cold;  sometimes  it  pounded 
against  her  chest  like  the  strokes  of  a  hammer, 
stopped  still,  and  went  on  with  a  mad  flutter.  At 
odd  moments,  her  legs  went  suddenly  weak,  her 
vision  blurred,  and  all  her  faculties  melted  in  a 

strange  pang  that  was  like  a  death  pang. 

199 


200  N  E  N  E 

When  the  men  had  gone  to  bed  she  solaced  her 
ache  with  tears. 

She  didn't  do  her  work  as  well  as  she  used  to. 
Being  now  particularly  anxious  not  to  give  Michael 
any  cause  for  complaint,  she  spent  more  time  than 
necessary  over  those  things  that  usually  caught  his 
attention;  for  the  rest,  the  days  weren't  long  enough. 
She  still  dusted  very  carefully  all  the  old  keepsakes 
on  the  mantelpiece,  those  rather  ugly  old  things 
that  had  come  under  her  special  guardianship  after 
the  death  of  old  man  Corbier;  but  she  now  ran  her 
cloth  but  rarely,  and  then  hurriedly,  over  the  chairs, 
the  beds,  the  chests  with  the  fine  old  iron-work. 

Sometimes  she  sat  down  with  Jo  on  her  lap  and 
stayed  like  that  a  long  while.  When  the  baby  let 
her  rock  him  in  her  arms,  when  he  dropped  off  to 
sleep  against  her  shoulder,  when  the  warm  little 
breath  caressed  her  cheek,  a  gentle  languor  came 
over  her  and,  forgetful  of  everything,  she  still  had 
moments  of  deep  happiness. 

Michael  took  every  opportunity  to  annoy  her  and 
harshly  show  himself  the  master.  One  morning  he 
ordered  Madeleine,  in  a  tone  that  did  not  admit  of 
discussion,  to  get  all  of  Lalie's  clothes  ready  so  she 
could  start  going  to  school  right  after  All-Saints 
day. 

Indeed  it  was  high  time;  Lalie  was  past  seven; 
but  as  there  was  no  one  but  herself  to  take  her  to 
Saint-Ambroise,  Madeleine  had  managed  until  now 


N  E  N  E  201 

to  keep  her  at  home.  She  had  taught  her  to  read 
and  count,  and  she  had  even  bought  her  some  copy- 
books with  handwriting  models  at  the  top  of  the 
pages,  for  Lalie  to  learn  to  use  her  pen.  And 
Madeleine  was  delighted  because  Lalie  was  already 
showing  the  promise  of  a  fine  hand. 

When  school  had  opened  in  October,  Michael  had 
spoken  of  sending  the  little  girl  to  attend  classes, 
but  Madeleine  had  opposed  the  plan  because  it  was 
such  a  long  way  to  go  and  the  bad  weather  would 
be  coming  soon.  Michael  had  given  in.  And  here 
he  was  going  back  on  his  word,  without  a  single 
new  argument. 

"Lalie  will  go  to  school,  beginning  the  first  Mon- 
day of  November.  Get  her  things  ready." 

"And  where  will  I  be,  the  first  Monday  of  No- 
vember?" thought  Madeleine.  "All-Saints  day  will 
come  round  in  a  fortnight,  and  my  contract  will  be 
up,  and  he  hasn't  yet  said  a  word  about  renewing 
it." 

Michael  was  indeed  quite  silent  on  the  subject, 
which  only  increased  Madeleine's  fears. 

One  day,  however,  at  table,  as  he  was  making 
plans  for  the  coming  year,  Michael  spoke  up 
bluntly : 

"As  for  you,  Madeleine,  what  have  you  decided?" 

She  did  not  answer  but  drew  away  from  him, 
turning  her  back  to  poke  the  fire. 

"What  are  your  plans?    You  haven't  told  me,  so 


202  N  E  N  E 

far,  whether  you  want  to  stay  on  here  or  not. — It's 
time  I  knew;  I  want  to  have  all  this  business  settled 
at  once. — Here's  what  I  have  to  say:  if  you  decide 
to  stay  on,  it  won't  be  at  the  same  wages.  I  mean 
to  cut  them  down." 

He  had  purposely  struck  a  loud,  lordly,  disagree- 
able tone  to  make  it  quite  clear  that  he  no  longer 
wanted  his  housekeeper  and  that  he  had  made  his 
new  offer  merely  to  save  her  face,  to  let  the  break 
come  from  her  instead  of  him.  The  men  listened 
in  astonishment;  Gideon  had  to  make  an  effort  to 
keep  quiet,  but  his  eyes  showed  anger. 

Michael  went  on:  "You  are  no  doubt  capable 
of  making  a  lot  of  money,  but  it  isn't  convenient 
for  me  to  pay  you  such  high  wages." 

Madeleine  kept  her  back  turned  and  asked  in  a 
dead  voice: 

"What's  your  offer?" 

He  paused,  for  he  had  not  expected  such  a  direct 
question.  At  last  he  said : 

"The  girl  I  hire — will  get  two  hundred  francs  for 
the  year,  no  more." 

Madeleine  turned  round  at  once ;  facing  the  three 
of  them,  she  said: 

"Agreed!" 

Michael  started,  opened  his  mouth  to  say  some- 
thing; but,  meeting  the  farm-hands'  stare,  he  grew 
red  in  the  face  and  replied  superciliously: 


N  E  N  E  203 

"All  right!  My  word  stands.  That's  settled, 
then." 

That  day  Madeleine  ate  her  food  with  a  good 
appetite,  did  all  her  work  with  the  old  thorough- 
ness and,  when  night  came,  she  slept  eight  hours 
at  a  stretch. 

But  on  the  morrow  the  man's  attitude  was  such 
that  all  her  fears  were  revived,  only  the  sharper  and 
more  pressing  for  the  brief  moment's  respite. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  possibly  stay 
on  at  the  Moulinettes;  no  agreement  in  the  world 
could  bind  her.  No  matter  how  deaf  and  dumb,  how 
humble  and  cowardly  she  might  be,  she  would  not 
be  able  to  escape  this  insensate  enmity. 

She  who  had  never  been  ill  in  her  life,  felt  her- 
self on  the  way  to  illness.  She  could  not  eat;  she 
could  not  sleep;  a  strange  weariness  was  breaking 
all  her  limbs. 

One  morning,  Gideon,  who  had  got  up  very  early, 
found  the  hall  door  open.  It  puzzled  him,  and  as 
he  went  out  to  investigate,  he  stumbled  over 
Madeleine  sitting  on  the  ground,  fighting  off  a  faint- 
ing spell. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NIGHT  was  falling,  an  October  night  as  beauti- 
ful as  a  mid-summer  evening,  but  of  a  more 
wistful,  more  intimate,  more  thrilling  beauty.  The 
wind  that  had  been  high  all  through  the  day,  whisk- 
ing the  leaves  off  the  trees,  had  gone  to  sleep.  Only 
the  tall  tree-tops  were  still  a-tremble,  shining  like 
copper  in  the  golden  haze  of  the  setting  sun. 

Michael  was  guessing  the  hour  of  day  by  the 
length  of  the  shadows.  All  day  long  he  had  worked 
in  the  meadow  behind  the  house,  pruning  the  bushy 
hedges,  cutting  the  heads  off  the  shrubs,  hacking 
away  the  brambles  and  the  intruding  honey-suckle. 
Now  he  had  come  to  the  goat  pasture  and  was  clean- 
ing up  all  the  tough,  hasty  weed-growths  of  the  sum- 
mer. With  wide  strokes  of  his  sickle  he  felled  dry 
grasses,  wall-flowers,  the  last  of  the  thistles  and  the 
rusty  stalks  of  dead  ferns. 

Every  once  in  a  while  he  straightened  up  to  listen, 
and  his  eyes  searched  the  road.  Violette  was  to 
pass  by  the  Moulinettes  on  her  way  back  from  Saint- 
Ambroise  and  he  was  waiting  for  her;  it  was  almost 
time  for  her  to  come. 

"Only  a  little  while  longer !    When  the  mist  rises 

round  the  pond,  she'll  be  coming  in  sight." 

204 


N  E  N  E  205 

All  his  youthful,  ardent  feelings  carried  him 
madly  ahead  toward  her. 

At  the  house,  Madeleine's  voice  rang  out. 
Michael  heard  it  and  all  at  once  his  temper  was 
roused. 

That  girl !  Why  was  she  staying  on  at  his  place*? 
Why  couldn't  he  get  rid  of  her  even  when  her  con- 
tract was  run  out?  He'd  made  a  new  deal,  and  of 
course  he  couldn't  think  of  going  back  on  any  deal 
once  it  was  made. 

Still  .  .  .  think  of  how  she  harmed  him  in  Vio- 
lette's  esteem ! 

Well,  after  all,  it  was  largely  his  own  fault.  He 
had  been  letting  the  woman  take  hold  of  his  house- 
hold too  masterfully,  right  from  the  start.  Now  she 
had  naturally  enthroned  herself  and  expected  to  rule 
the  whole  place.  Well,  she  wouldn't — just  watch 
and  see ! 

"I'm  the  master  and  the  only  master. — They'll 
start  laughing  at  me,  next  thing! — I'll  get  her  to 
go. — She  deserves  it — it's  plain  justice." 

He  kept  saying  these  things  to  himself  to  keep 
up  his  resolution.  When  he  had  Violette  before  his 
eyes,  his  rancour  flamed  high,  but  whenever  he  was 
alone  he  had  to  keep  stirring  the  flames  a  little. 

There  were  her  three  years  of  devoted  service  and 
good  fellowship;  there  was  the  renewed  prosperity 
of  his  farm,  the  happy  comfort  of  his  children.  And 


206  N  E  N  E 

then  perhaps  something  else,  too,  that  wasn't  quite 
forgotten. 

"It's  plain  justice,  no  more  than  plain  jus- 
tice  " 

Having  finished  his  pruning,  he  threw  down  his 
sickle,  picked  up  a  fork  and  piled  up  the  rubbish 
into  a  great  heap ;  then,  in  order  to  destroy  all  these 
noxious  weeds  full  of  seed,  Michael  set  the  pile  on 
fire.  A  bright  flame  roared  up,  biting  into  the  dry 
fern  and  the  small  brush.  Then  the  fire  went  down 
a  little,  and  a  thick,  white  smoke  billowed  from  the 
burning  greenery  and  rose  up  slowly. 

Lalie,  who  was  playing  in  the  front  yard,  saw 
the  beautiful,  high  smoke.  She  ran  through  the 
house  to  the  back  door. 

"Nene !  Nene !  There's  a  big  fire  in  the  meadow ; 
I  am  going  to  see  it." 

Madeleine  called  out: 

"No,  you  stay  here,  you'll  see  it  just  as  well ;  down 
there,  you  might  get  burned." 

Michael  heard  her  and  approved  of  her  prudence. 
But  then,  right  away,  he  chided  himself  for  his  ap- 
proval and,  from  a  feeling  of  misconceived  pride, 
he  called : 

"Lalie,  come  and  see  my  bonfire !" 

It  was  not  a  kindly  invitation,  but  a  crude  defiance 
shouted  very  loud  so  as  to  carry  far.  The  words 
passed  over  Lalie's  head,  on  into  the  house,  and 


N  E  N  E  207 

crashed  against  Madeleine's  heart.  Lalie  started  off 
at  once,  calling  back: 

"Nene,  I'm  going;  papa  said  so." 

Michael  was  now  raking  together  the  little  heaps 
of  dead  leaves  and  dry  twigs  he  had  assembled  all 
over  the  pasture.  Every  time  he  flung  an  armful 
of  the  fuel  on  the  fire,  it  flamed  up,  crackled  prettily 
and  sent  up  innumerable  sparks. 

Lalie  danced  around  the  fire,  clapping  her  hands. 
Michael  had  gathered  some  early  chestnuts  and  put 
them  for  her  on  a  bed  of  embers  that  he  had  raked 
together  at  one  side  of  the  bonfire.  While  they 
were  roasting,  the  child  started  running  back  and 
forth  through  the  smoke. 

"Don't  go  too  near,"  said  Michael,  "the  flame 
might  catch  you." 

The  little  girl  stopped  running  and  busied  her- 
self stirring  her  chestnuts  with  a  twig. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  meadow  there  was  still 
a  big  pile  of  brush  left  and  Michael  went  to  fetch 
it;  but  just  as  he  was  raising  his  pitchfork,  he 
dropped  it  again  and  walked  up  to  the  road. 

Violette  was  coming. 

When  she  reached  him  she  stopped  and  let  her 
girl  helpers  go  on  ahead. 

"Good  evening,"  said  she;  "you  heard  me  com- 
ing?" 

"My  mind  is  full  of  you  all  day  long  and  when 
you  rise  to  come  toward  me,  wherever  you  are,  I 


208  N  E  N  E 

hear  your  step.  My  heart  hears  a  hundred  times 
farther  than  my  ear." 

She  threw  back  her  head,  offering  her  swelling 
throat,  and  murmured  languidly: 

"When  it  comes  to  paying  compliments,  there's 
none  can  hold  a  candle  to  you." 

"That's  because  none  feels  such  tenderness  as 
mine.  If  you  knew  how  slowly  the  hours  pass  when 
I  am  far  from  you!" 

She  smiled  and  drew  nearer  until  she  touched  him. 

"I  too,"  she  said,  "I  think  of  you. — I'm  glad  I 
met  you  to-night;  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I've 
found  a  new  servant  for  you,  an  elderly  woman  who 
can  come  right  away  after  All-Saints  day." 

Michael  made  an  angry  gesture. 

"Oh,  about  that !  I'm  in  a  pretty  fix,  the  way  I 
was  caught  the  other  morning!" 

"What  do  you  mean?    What  happened?" 

"I  made  a  new  agreement,  for  another  year,  with 
the  one  I've  got  now." 

Violette  gave  a  start  as  if  she  had  stepped  on  a 
thorn  and  malice  began  to  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

"You're  joking,"  she  said  drily,  "you're  trying 
to  make  me  laugh." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  unfortunately!" 

"Well,  then? — Didn't  you  promise  me?" 

"Of  course  I  did,  and  gladly,  too !  But  there  you 
are, — I  never  suspected — !  I  offered  ridiculous 


N  E  N  E  209 

wages  and  she  took  me  up  right  off.  I  only  did  it 
so  as  not  to  hurt  her  feelings." 

"Thank  you !  You'd  sooner  have  her  hurt  mine, 
would  you?' 

She  turned  to  go  away  and  Michael  pleaded: 

"Violette ! — Violette ! — Please ! — Don't  hold  it 
against  me!" 

And  he  added  in  a  sad,  cowardly  tone:  "I  made 
you  a  promise — I'll  try  to  keep  it;  I'll  find  a  way." 

"It's  simple  enough  and  you  needn't  bother  your 
head:  at  All-Saints  you  just  hire  the  servant  I've 
found  for  you." 

"I  can't  do  it !    We've  made  an  agreement " 

"Bah!    Does  that  stop  you?' 

"Yes,  it  does. — In  our  family,  we've  always 
stuck  to  our  bargains. — But  perhaps  she'll  leave  of 
her  own  accord:  I'd  rather  have  it  that  way." 

"Not  I !"  declared  Violette.  "If  you  really  mean 
to  get  rid  of  her,  you  can  find  plenty  of  reasons. 
In  the  first  place,  she's  robbing  you." 

"That's  not  so !"  said  Michael. 

"Isn't  it,  though!— Poor  fellow!" 

She  gave  him  a  sort  of  pitying  look  and  began 
to  relate  Boiseriot's  ugly  tales.  But  as  he  shook 
his  head  and  remained  incredulous  she  grew  im- 
patient and  declared  flatly: 

"Anyway,  I've  got  enough  of  this !  If  you  want 
me  to  listen  to  your  compliments,  you'll  have  to 
get  rid  of  a  servant  as  young  as  this  one." 


210  NENE 

Michael  had  taken  her  hands  and  held  them 
firmly  in  his. 

"Violette !  Viofette !  All  right — it'll  be  managed 
somehow.  If  you'd  only  say  yes,  it's  you  who'd  be 
at  the  head  of  my  household  now;  and  if  there  was 
a  servant,  she'd  be  under  your  orders.  Listen  to 
me " 

She  tossed  her  head,  but  he  went  on,  more  press- 
ingly: 

"You  know  how  much  I  love  you!  If  you  love 
me  too,  why  won't  you  be  my  wife?  Why  wait  and 
let  our  youth  go  to  waste*?" 

She  had  no  time  to  answer. 

Through  the  evening  quiet  a  cry  rose:  a  sudden, 
terrible,  agonised,  long  drawn-out  cry  of  horrible 
fear  and  unspeakable  pain.  And  then,  almost  at 
once,  another,  deeper,  raucous  cry :  the  cry  of  a  cor- 
nered animal  that  makes  ready  for  a  spring. 

Michael  felt  his  legs  give  way  under  him;  he 
raised  a  hand  and  cried  in  a  quaking  voice : 

"God's  curse !    My  child's  on  fire !" 

He  hurled  himself  forward,  broke  through  the 
hedge,  dashed  across  the  meadow  toward  the  cloud 
of  smoke  that  eddied  around  a  writhing,  living 
torch. 

Madeleine,  too,  came  hurrying  through  the  goat 
pasture.  The  child's  cry  had  instantly  brought  her 
to  her  feet,  had  sped  her  out  of  the  house  and  was 
pushing,  carrying  her  forward  with  incredible  swift- 


NENE  211 

ness.  And  from  her  throat  rose  that  other  cry 
in  response,  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  she-wolf  howling 
at  death. 

Apron  in  hand,  she  threw  herself  on  the  child, 
rolled  with  her  on  the  grass,  beat  out  the  flames  with 
wild  gesturings,  with  her  skirts,  her  hands,  with 
all  her  big  body. 

And  then,  with  one  jerk,  she  was  on  her  feet. 
The  child  writhed  in  her  arms,  uttering  piercing, 
heart-rending  shrieks. 

Michael  reached  them  all  a-tremble,  his  clothes 
awry.  She  never  even  looked  at  him,  but  started 
off  on  the  run. 

With  bare  feet  and  her  hair  undone  down  her 
back  she  ran  this  way  and  that,  aimlessly,  bounding 
hither  and  thither  in  a  mad  zigzag. 

As  Michael  ran  after  her,  impatient  to  know  the 
worst,  she  darted  off  to  the  pond  with  the  child 
held  high  to  let  the  wind  cool  the  burns.  A  hedge 
cut  her  off  for  a  minute;  then  she  was  seen  darting 
back  again. 

Violette  had  also  run  into  the  meadow  and  was 
standing  beside  Michael  on  the  pasture  lane.  With 
eyes  aflame,  Madeleine  charged  toward  the  two. 
They  stepped  out  of  her  path,  knowing  that  she 
was  crazed  and  ready  to  scratch,  to  kick,  to  bite. 
She  shot  past  them,  wild-eyed,  her  hair  streaming 
behind  her  in  the  wind,  carrying  her  pitiful,  scream- 
ing burden  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  IX 

doctor  did  not  come  until  the  next  day,  at 
JL  dawn.  The  child's  cries  went  on  inexorably. 
At  times  they  lost  a  little  of  their  shrillness,  grew 
fainter,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  going  to  sub- 
side, but  suddenly  they  rose  again,  more  harrowing 
than  ever. 

"Nene!    Nene!    It  hurts!    Help  me,  Nene !" 

The  doctor  examined  carefully  the  little  body  in 
pain.  The  fire  had  caught  at  her  skirts,  probably 
while  the  child  was  kneeling  to  watch  the  chestnuts 
roasting.  The  cotton  smock,  already  overheated, 
had  flared  up  like  paper,  burning  away  all  her  hair, 
scorching  her  face  and  neck  and  hands.  The  left 
side  was  the  worst;  another  second  or  two,  and  the 
whole  of  her  body  would  have  been  one  great 
wound. 

"She  is  not  in  any  real  danger,"  said  the  doctor. 
"The  burns  seem  to  be  superficial.  But  you  got  to  her 
just  in  time." 

He  was  a  young  man  with  an  air  of  self-impor- 
tance. He  put  on  bandages  but,  to  Madeleine's  way 
of  thinking,  he  didn't  go  about  it  as  he  should,  too 
hurriedly  and  too  roughly.  When  he  was  done,  he 
rubbed  his  hands  as  if  he  were  very  well  satisfied. 

212 


NENE  213 

"It  will  be  nothing; — painful,  of  course,  but  you 
mustn't  be  frightened  over  trifles.  Do  you  hear  me, 
Madame*?  There  you  are,  all  in  a  tremble,  and  un- 
nerved— it's  foolish!  Look  at  me:  am  I  upset*? — 
Do  her  screams  upset  me*? — My  goodness,  one's  got 
to  use  some  self-control !" 

Madeleine  had  resumed  her  seat  by  the  child's 
bedside  and  the  doctor  was  standing  behind  her, 
talking  and  talking,  suggesting  that  he  was  a 
widely  travelled  and  learned  man. 

With  his  little  girl's  incessant  cries  ringing  hi  his 
ears,  Michael  had  to  make  an  effort  to  listen  to 
him  with  some  semblance  of  politeness;  he  nodded 
approvingly,  even  though  he  heard  only  bits  of  dis- 
connected sentences  that  made  no  sense  to  him. 

"In  Paris  .  .  .  over  there  ...  at  the  hospital 
.  .  .  you  wouldn't  believe  it !  ...  In  the  course  of 
my  studies  ...  In  Paris  .  .  .  some  appalling 
cases  ...  I  remember  a  certain  woman  .  .  . 
burned  all  over  .  .  .  blisters  as  big  as  bladders 
.  .  .  That  was  at  St.  Louis'  Hospital  .  .  .  and 
don't  forget,  there  was  asphyxiation  too  .  .  .  One 
of  my  colleagues  suggested  picric  acid  ...  I  said: 
No!  ...  I  saved  her  life  ...  In  the  Paris  hos- 
pitals .  .  .  great,  complicated  cases  .  .  ." 

Madeleine  turned  round,  bristling,  and  flung  into 
his  face: 

"Great  complicated  cases!  Great  complicated 
cases!  Why  don't  you  heal  this  one  that's  little 


214  NENE 

.  .  .  and  simple,  so  you  say !  If  you  know  such  a 
lot,  why  can't  you  stop  her  from  suffering!" 

The  young  physician  laughed  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  mouth,  but  all  his  bragging  was  cut  short.  So 
he  went  away,  saying  to  Michael : 

"She's  none  too  easy  to  get  on  with,  your  old 
woman,  eh1?" 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Madeleine  called  Gideon. 

"Run  over  to  the  Hardilas,"  she  told  him,  "and 
fetch  Red  Julie  who  casts  spells  for  burns.  We've 
got  to  try  everything." 

Michael,  coming  back,  heard  her  and  said: 

"What  could  she  do,  after  the  doctor?" 

Madeleine  neither  moved  nor  answered.  She 
hadn't  spoken  to  him  since  the  accident;  she  paid 
no  attention  whatever  to  him. 

He  went  on,  a  little  louder: 

"The  day  of  witches  is  past." 

As  she  still  refused  to  answer,  he  ventured  to  come 
quite  close  to  the  bed. 

"Madeleine,  you  must  be  dead  tired.  I'll  take 
your  place  for  a  spell. — I'll  hold  up  her  head  as 
well  as  you  and  if  she  wants  to  be  carried  around, 
I'll  carry  her  around.  Do  you  hear  me,  Madeleine?" 

She  turned  away  as  she  had  turned  away  from 
the  doctor;  she  said  nothing,  but  her  look  was  so 
unrelenting  that  Michael  drew  back. 

The  witch  of  the  Hardilas  came  in  the  morning; 


NENE  215 

she  was  half  blind,  very  old,  very  dirty  and  very 
gruff. 

Right  away  she  gave  her  prescription:  three 
spiders,  three  slugs,  three  earth-worms  cut  in  seven 
pieces,  seven  ash  leaves  and  seven  cloves  of  garlic; 
put  all  this  into  a  little  sack  and  place  it  under  the 
pillow. 

"Do  you  hear,  my  dear?    Under  the  pillow/' 

"Yes,  yes,  I  hear,"  said  Madeleine. 

"Well,  then !    Now  you  go  out,  I  command  you !" 

"Where  do  you  want  me  to  go?" 

"Go  outside  of  the  house.  I  must  breathe  on  the 
wounds — and  speak  words  that  you  mustn't  hear. 
Well,  now — go  away!" 

The  old  woman  was  losing  her  patience ;  she  went 
to  the  bed  and  roughly  pulled  back  the  covers. 
Lalie,  who  had  been  easier  for  a  little  while,  cried 
out: 

"Nene!" 

Madeleine  rushed  to  her: 

"I'm  here,  darling." 

"Nene!    She  hurt  me!" 

"No  wonder,"  said  Madeleine,  instantly  roused 
to  wrath.  "Why  aren't  you  more  careful?  If  you 
came  to  hurt  her,  you'd  better  tell  me !" 

The  old  woman  played  the  lofty  string;  she  was 
used  to  being  flattered  and  she  was  so  much  held 
in  fear  that  she  ended  by  believing  in  her  own 
powers  of  sorcery. 


216  NENE 

She  drew  back,  made  weird  gestures  and  mumbled 
things  to  herself. 

Lalie  took  fright  at  this  gaunt,  ugly  old  woman 
who  was  shaking  her  claw-like  hands,  and  Madeleine 
protested : 

"That's  enough  of  your  bugaboos !" 

The  old  sorceress  was  so  startled,  she  looked  ready 
to  jump  to  the  ceiling.  Then  she  began  to  yelp: 

"Red  viper  and  water  lizard !  White  wehrwolfs ! 
Come,  my  pets !  Black  wehrwolfs !  Speckled  wehr- 
wolfs!" 

Madeleine  took  her  out  by  the  door  so  energeti- 
cally that  the  rest  of  her  incantations  stuck  in  her 
throat  for  lack  of  breath. 

Michael  was  coming  in  from  the  garden. 
Madeleine's  arms  went  stiff,  and  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eye  she  shouted : 

"So  it  seems  that  everyone  is  turning  against  the 
child!  First  the  young  one,  then  this  old  thing! 
First  the  doctor,  then  the  witch !  I'm  fed  up  on  you, 
all  of  you !  Go  away ! — Go  away ! " 

Michael  stammered  in  his  amazement : 

"But  this  one — you  yourself  sent  for  her !" 

She  made  no  reply;  she  didn't  seem  to  have  heard. 
Her  eyes  became  like  steel;  she  flung  out  her  arms 
and  opened  her  big  hands. 

"I  don't  want  anybody  here,  not  anybody!  I'll 
jump  at  the  head  of  the  first  one  who  comes  in !" 


NENE  217 

And  as  Michael  came  nearer,  she  closed  the  door 
in  his  face. 

All  through  a  week  the  house  was  unapproach- 
able. 

The  hands  ate  their  meals  in  Michael's  room; 
they  passed  in  and  out  by  the  back  door  with  muffled 
tread.  Madeleine  did  not  trouble  about  them;  she 
troubled  neither  about  the  kitchen,  nor  about  the 
house,  nor  about  the  live  stock  nor  about  any  of  her 
tasks.  As  long  as  the  child's  plaints  kept  on,  she 
sat  by  the  bedside,  stubbornly,  jealously,  fiercely; 
and  her  eyes  were  wide  and  dry. 

On  the  morning  of  All-Saints,  however,  as  the 
child  had  dropped  off  into  a  deep  sleep,  she  quietly 
opened  the  hall  door  and  entered  the  men's  room. 
They  were  finishing  their  breakfast  and  Michael 
had  just  counted  out  the  farm-hands'  wages;  he  was 
pouring  out  some  wine  to  drink  to  Gideon,  who  was 
leaving  that  day  to  enter  military  service. 

The  men  looked  at  her  and  found  nothing  to  say. 
Finally  Michael  got  himself  to  ask : 

"Is  she  sleeping*?  She  passed  a  good  night,  it 
seemed  to  me." 

He  waited  anxiously  for  her  answer,  but  no 
answer  came. 

Madeleine  turned  to  Gideon : 

"So  you  are  leaving  these  parts'?  Where  are  they 
sending  you,  poor  boy*?" 

Gideon  answered  bravely : 


218  NENE 

"Not  to  the  ends  of  the  world!  I'm  going  to 
Angers,  to  join  the  dragoons." 

"I'll  be  sorry,"  she  said,  "not  to  see  you  round 
here  any  more." 

Michael  ventured: 

"I  hope  he'll  come  to  pay  us  a  visit  every  time 
he  gets  a  furlough." 

Then  he  placed  on  the  table  a  little  pile  of  gold 
pieces. 

"Here  are  your  wages,  too,  Madeleine. — You'll 
have  use  for  them." 

Then  for  the  first  time  in  a  week  she  spoke  to  him : 

"Thank  you.  I  have  a  very  good  use  for  them, 
indeed." 

She  took  a  gold  piece  and  handed  it  to  Gideon. 

"You'll  be  going  to  Saint- Ambroise,  won't  you"? 
Well  then,  will  you  do  me  the  favor  of  stopping  in 
at  Mme.  Blanchevirain's :  you'll  please  pick  out  the 
nicest  toy  she  has  to  amuse  a  little  girl." 

Michael  was  going  to  protest,  but  she  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  stressed  her  request : 

"The  nicest  toy  in  the  shop !  And  you'll  bring  it 
to  me,  won't  you*?" 

"I  will,"  said  the  young  man.  "You'll  have  it 
this  evening." 

Michael  had  turned  very  red,  but  his  pride  was 
beaten  and  he  offered  his  suggestion  timidly : 

"We  might,  at  the  same  time,  have  the  doctor 


NENE  219 

called  here  again.  I'd  like  him  to  look  her  over  once 
more." 

"What  for"?  To  hurt  her  again*?  Seeing  a  child 
in  pain  doesn't  upset  him  one  bit,  your  fine  doctor!" 

"Well,  we  might  call  in  another  doctor, — say  the 
old  one,  of  Saint-Ambroise." 

"Oh,  do  as  you  like,"  said  Madeleine  and  turned 
on  her  heel. 

The  new  doctor  came  in  the  afternoon — no  rush 
and  fuss  about  him !  He  was  a  timid,  sensible  little 
old  man  without  any  great  reputation.  He  was  of 
no  use  in  cases  of  wounds  because  the  sight  of  blood 
made  him  ill.  They  said  that  his  learning  was 
scanty  and  that  his  long  practice  had  not  taught  him 
much.  But  there  was  this  to  his  credit :  if  he  rarely 
cured  his  patients,  he  hardly  ever  killed  them. 

Standing  beside  the  bed  of  Lalie,  who  was  still 
sound  asleep,  he  said  softly: 

"Poor  little  darling — she's  asleep — don't  let's 
wake  her.  Never  wake  the  sick ! — She  was  burned, 
you  say"?  Poor  little  thing,  she  must  have  suffered 
martyrdom. — I  won't  disturb  her.  You're  using 
olive  oil  on  the  burns,  aren't  you?" 

Madeleine  replied  with  an  effort: 

"Olive  oil,  yes, — that's  what  I  use." 

She  had  seated  herself  by  the  bedside;  her  legs 
felt  nerveless;  her  head  was  heavy;  she  felt  no  pain, 
on  the  contrary, — the  gentle  murmur  of  the  doctor's 
voice  was  soothing  to  her. 


220  N  E  N  E 

"That's  quite  right. — Go  on  with  it — and  take 
care  not  to  abrase  the  skin  when  you  apply  it.  The 
hands  are  rather  bad,  and  the  left  cheek. — Perhaps 
she'll  be  all  right  again — let's  hope  so. — Such  a 
pretty  little  girl ! — it  would  be  too  bad  to  have  her 
disfigured.  She  ought  to  be  amused,  have  her  mind 
occupied  now; — and  get  her  to  eat  well.-  She'll  be 
up  and  about  again  soon — oh,  yes,  yes,  I  promise 
you:  she'll  pick  up  very  quickly  now.  It's  a  pleas- 
ure to  'tend  these  little  tots. — How  she  sleeps !  She 
hasn't  rested  much  these  past  nights,  has  she?" 

As  he  turned  round  for  Madeleine's  answer,  he 
saw  that  she  too  had  fallen  asleep.  Crushed  with 
weariness,  she  slept  with  her  mouth  open,  almost 
without  breathing,  and  she  was  so  white,  one  might 
have  thought  her  dead. 

The  doctor  pointed  her  out  to  Michael,  whisper- 
ing: "Hush!" — and  left  the  room  on  tiptoe. 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  wasn't  long  before  Lalie's  burns  stopped  pain- 
ing and  she  became  her  merry  little  self  again. 
Nevertheless,  the  fire  had  left  its  ineffaceable  marks. 
Her  hair  grew  out,  her  right  cheek  became  white  and 
normal  again,  but  a  great  red  scar  remained  on  the 
left  cheek  and  would  never  disappear.  Her  hands, 
too,  the  pretty  little  hands  with  the  shapely  nails, 
were  covered  with  a  new  skin  that  was  too  smooth 
and  without  elasticity;  the  poor  little  fingers  that 
used  to  be  so  nimble  would  never  again  open  com- 
pletely. 

As  for  Madeleine,  she  didn't  quite  recover  either 
from  the  shock.  It  was  as  if  her  heart  had  been 
scorched  in  the  fire;  part  of  it  dried  up  and  died 
off. 

Except  the  children,  everything  became  a  matter 
of  indifference  to  her.  She  had  resumed  her  place 
at  the  helm.  Without  a  word  Michael  submitted 
to  her  cold  authority  and  felt  more  cowed  in  her 
presence  than  the  farm-hands.  She  never  put  any 
ill-feeling  into  her  speech  with  him,  but  sometimes, 
when  he  behaved  most  humbly  and  gently,  the 


221 


222  N  E  N  E 

appalling  memory  flashed  through  her  mind,  and 
then  she  cast  upon  the  young  master  with  the  fickle 
heart  a  look  that  was  dry-eyed  and  unforgiving. 
Winter  came.    Jo  had  the  measles. 


CHAPTER  XI 

BOISERIOT  was  having  his  coffee  at  Violette's 
home. 

They  had  lunched  alone  together,  as  Violette's 
mother  was  out  on  a  day's  wash  in  the  village. 

With  all  his  wile  on  the  alert,  Boiseriot  was  ques- 
tioning Violette.  In  every  one  of  his  words  he  laid 
a  snare  that  could  not  fail  to  catch  her — yet,  so  far, 
she  had  side-stepped  them  all,  and  of  course  it  was 
useless  to  try  to  read  her  eyes. 

"She's  a  cool  one  all  right!"  thought  Boiseriot. 
"I'll  never  draw  her  out,  darn  her!" 

He  lost  patience  and  said : 

"Well  now,  my  dear  girl,  I'll  say  it  isn't  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  confess  you;  I'm  not 
clever  enough  for  the  job." 

Then  he  changed  his  tone  from  one  of  complaint 
to  one  of  attack. 

"It  would  take  a  pretty  shrewd  old  parish  priest 
to  make  you  tell  what's  in  your  mind, — one  who's 
heard  all  kinds  of  stories  and  knows  how  to  unravel 
his  yarn.  .  .  .  No  young  abbe  for  you  ...  eh, 
little  girl?" 

Violette  gave  a  startled  toss  of  her  head,  went 

pale,  and  the  words  came  hissing  through  her  teeth : 

223 


224  NENE 

"Is  that  what  you  were  trying  to  get  at?" 

He  looked  surprised. 

"My  goodness,  you  act  as  if  I'd  made  your  angry ! 
.  .  .  What  did  I  say?  I  don't  see  .  .  ." 

She  fell  in  petulantly: 

"Don't  play  the  innocent!  ...  So  you  came  to 
eat  at  my  table  just  to  insult  me,  did  you?  You'd 
better  make  up  your  mind  that  I'm  not  in  a  mood 
to  stand  it !" 

She  had  got  up  and  was  noisily  moving  about 
some  glasses  on  the  sideboard,  while  he  drummed 
on  the  table,  waiting  for  the  storm  to  pass. 

"You  want  to  read  me  a  lecture,  do  you?  .  .  . 
'Violette,  they're  saying  this,'  and  'Violette,  they're 
saying  that!'  ...  I  don't  care!  I  don't  care!  I 
don't  care !" 

A  glass  fell  down  and  broke  with  a  clear  tinkle. 
Violette  stopped,  suddenly  calmed;  then  she  took  a 
few  dance  steps  and  burst  out  laughing: 

"After  all,  my  friend,  you're  right:  that  little 
abbe  wasn't  very  clever!" 

"I  don't  follow  you,"  said  Boiseriot.  "You  talk 
as  if  there  was  something.  ...  I  don't  know  a 
thing!" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders: 

"You  don't,  don't  you!" 

She  came  close  to  him  and  her  eyes  lighted  up 
with  a  flame  of  reckless  impudence.  She  would 
have  liked  to  shout  at  him : 


NENE  225 

"Come,  now!  You're  lying!  You're  always 
lying!  I  sometimes  do  tell  the  truth. —  I  have 
that  courage!  .  .  .  You  don't  know  a  thing,  do 
you?  Well  then,  I'll  tell  you  this:  There  was  a 
pink  little,  blond  little  abbe  here,  with  hair  as  fine 
as  silk  and  pretty  hands  as  white  as  sugar.  He  saw 
me  often,  almost  every  day.  At  first  he  paid  no 
attention  to  me.  But  because  of  his  hair  and  his 
hands  and  his  innocent  eyes,  I  wanted  to  wake  him 
up.  ...  So  I  went  shaking  my  skirts  around  him, 
and  by  and  by  he  grew  to  have  that  wild  look  they 
all  get  .  .  .  and  he  came  along,  just  like  the  others. 
He  came  along — yes;  only,  being  tormented  with 
ideas  of  sinfulness,  he  got  to  talking  a  lot  of  non- 
sense and  doing  foolish  things  .  .  .  and  so  he  was 
caught. — He's  gone  away  now,  far  away  somewhere, 
I  don't  know  where;  and  I'm  left  behind  with  the 
smirch. — But  what  do  I  care!" 

Yes,  truly,  she  would  have  liked  to  shout  this  at 
him,  just  for  bravado.  .  .  . 

"You  don't  know  a  thing,  you  sayl  Then  I  sup- 
pose you  came  to  hear  the  news'?" 

"Just  as  you  like. — They  say  you've  lost  your 
two  little  helpers'?" 

"It's  true,  they've  left  me,  and  so  have  my  cus- 
tomers,— and,  worst  of  all,  so  have  my  lovers." 

"Oh!— as  for  that " 

"It's  enough  to  make  me  cry  my  eyes  out.  But 
never  fear !  I'm  one  of  the  merry  sort !" 


226  N  E  N  E 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  inquired  Boiseriot. 

"Become  a  nun  in  a  far-away  land — and  all  day 
long  I'll  pray  for  you  who  are  in  sore  need  of  it. 
Or  then  again — here's  another  possibility:  I'll  go 
and  get  married!" 

"Get  married?' 

"Yes!  since  all  my  lovers  desert  me,  I'll  get  me 
a  husband !  I'll  just  turn  the  goods;  the  wrong  side 
has  a  lot  of  wear  in  it  yet.  What  do  you  think  of 
my  plan*?" 

"I  think  you're  making  sport  of  me." 

She  burst  into  another  laugh. 

"That's  true!  Of  you  as  well  as  the  rest  of 
them!" 

Boiseriot  went  on,  pursuing  his  idea. 

"But  is  it  true  your  lovers  have  deserted  you? 
Doesn't  Clarandeau  watch  out  for  you  on  the  roads 
any  more?  And  what  of  Michael  Corbier?  Are 
you  sure  you've  stopped  listening  to  him?" 

She  looked  at  him  squarely  without  answering. 

"You  boasted  that  you'd  have  that  hired  girl  at 
the  Moulinettes  discharged, — she's  there  yet!  You 
told  me  she'd  insulted  you  and  so  I  thought " 

Violette  shot  a  sharp  question  at  him: 

"What  about  you?  What's  she  done  to  you, 
that  big  lump  of  a  girl?" 

Boiseriot  drank  down  the  last  drop  of  his  coffee 
and  smacked  his  lips. 

"It's  real  good  coffee,  this  is!"  he  said.     "You 


N  E  N  E  227 

know  how  to  make  it.  You're  all  ready  to  settle 
down  to  housekeeping,  I'd  say!" 

Violette  kept  her  mocking  eyes  on  him.  He  began 
teasing  her  and  pitying  her  future  husband. 

"He'll  have  to  be  a  brave  man! — You'll  lead  him 
a  dance,  right  enough! — There'll  be  five  hundred 
devils  let  loose  in  his  house.  I'd  like  to  know  the 
poor  fellow. — Perhaps  it'll  be  Clarandeau*?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Violette.  Her  face  was  set  in 
an  unreadable  mask. 

"If  he  got  a  Government  job — but  those  things 
take  time!  Besides,  he  drinks. — Perhaps  it'll  be 
Michael  Corbier?" 

"Perhaps!  It'll  no  doubt  be  either  one  of  those 
two — there  isn't  another  one  that's  brave  enough ! — 
Do  you  know,  your  former  boss  isn't  at  all  bad ! — 
If  I  take  him,  that  hired  girl  will  get  out  sure 
enough,  and  then  you'll  have  your  wish." 

Boiseriot  rose. 

"Are  you  joking,  or  are  you  speaking  the  truth, 
seriously?  I  never  can  tell,  with  you.  If  there's 
anybody  can  guess  what  you're  going  to  do " 

".  .  .  he'll  have  to  be  cleverer  than  you,  as  you've 
said  before.  Well,  he'll  have  to  be  cleverer  than 
myself,  too. — You're  going?  Good-bye,  then! — 
When  you  come  again,  perhaps  you'll  have  better 
luck;  I  may  have  some  news  for  you  then." 

So  he  left  her. 

Along  the  road  Boiseriot  thought : 


228  N  E  N  E 

"She'll  marry.— What  else  can  she  do?  She'll 
take  one  of  those  two  purblind  fellows  who  know 
nothing.  The  one  she  jilts  will  think  he's  in  hell, 
but  it's  the  other  one  who'll  be  there,  sure  enough. 
I'm  going  to  have  some  fun!" 

And  at  her  window,  Violette  was  thinking : 

"I'll  get  married. — What  else  can  I  do?  I'll  have 
to  take  either  one  of  those  two  fools,  who' re  both 
blind  and  deaf.  Afterward,  I'll  manage  my  life 
all  right." 

Having  cleared  the  table,  she  sat  down  at  her 
sewing  machine.  Slowly  she  began  to  spin  a  silken 
thread  on  to  the  bobbin.  And  slowly,  too,  she  spun 
her  thoughts;  but  being  of  a  coarse  and  short  fibre, 
they  got  tangled  and  knotted  and  would  not  run 
smoothly,  like  a  straight,  orderly  skein. 

Regret  had  planted  its  teeth  in  her.  Why  had 
she  played  at  devilling  that  young  priest?  And 
later,  when  he  had  grovelled  at  her  feet  like  one 
possessed,  why  had  she  yielded  to  his  strange  suppli- 
cations? Had  she  loved  this  youth  with  the  pink 
complexion  and  the  dreamy  eyes?  .  .  .  Their  reck- 
lessness had  made  a  scandal  inevitable. 

And  now  she  was  being  shunned  by  everyone  in 
the  village.  The  affair  was  hushed  up,  of  course, 
because  the  Church  was  involved;  everything  pos- 
sible was  done  to  keep  it  from  the  ears  of  Protestants 
and  Dissenters;  nevertheless,  tongues  had  been  wag- 
ging at  Chantepie. 


N  E  N  E  229 

The  parents  of  her  two  young  helpers  refused  to 
let  them  work  with  her  any  more.  Her  Catholic 
customers  had  looked  for  another  dressmaker.  Even 
her  suitors  no  longer  cared  to  be  seen  with  such  a 
compromising  girl. 

What  could  she  do"?  Poverty  was  on  the  way. 
It  had  not  yet  knocked  at  the  door,  but  it  would, 
to-morrow. 

Violette  turned  her  thoughts  over  and  over. 
There  was  the  city,  to  be  sure,  always  ready  to  wel- 
come girls  of  her  kind.  The  city!  Fine  houses — 
soft  silks — bright  lights — festive  gatherings. — Her 
dreams  rose  up  and  up  like  a  flight  of  skylarks. 

Yes,  but  she'd  have  to  take  chances,  risk  desti- 
tution !  While  here,  if  she  married  a  fool 

If  she  married  a  fool  with  a  sufficient  competence, 
the  road  would  not  be  wide,  but  at  least  it  would  be 
level; — and  it  would  be  easy  enough,  any  time  she 
wished,  to  skip  off  for  a  bit  along  some  tempting 
by-way. 

If  John  Clarandeau  had  obtained  an  allowance 
from  the  insurance  company,  and  a  good  Govern- 
ment job. — But  no,  he'd  never  be  anything  but  a 
crippled  pauper  anyhow. 

Then,  what  of  the  other  one,  Michael  Corbier? 
He  came  of  a  substantial  family;  he  had  broad  acres 
in  the  sun. — He  was  a  Dissenter — so  much  the 
better!  She  would  bring  him  into  the  Church  and 
herself  return  to  the  fold  by  his  side.  She  would 


230  N  E  N  E 

return,  not  as  a  humble  penitent  despised  by  all, 
but  proudly,  with  her  head  held  high.  Making  such 
a  convert  would  be  indeed  a  victory  and  a  great 
feather  in  her  cap;  she  would  be  honoured  among 
women  throughout  the  parish. 

"I'll  marry  him.  I'll  have  a  big  house,  with 
people  to  work  under  my  orders. — I'd  better  not 
wait." 

The  silken  thread  was  spun  on  the  bobbin;  the 
sewing  machine  was  ready  for  work.  But  Violette 
pushed  away  the  unfinished  dress.  From  an  untidy 
closet  she  fetched  a  box  of  scented  notepaper  and, 
resting  it  on  the  shelf  of  the  machine,  she  hurriedly 
wrote  to  Michael  Corbier. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ONE  Sunday  Madeleine  took  the  children  to 
Le  Coudray.  Her  mother  had  been  somewhat 
ailing  during  the  winter  and  her  rheumatism  was 
still  keeping  her  from  work  for  days  at  a  stretch. 
She  blamed  Madeleine  for  not  having  come  oftener 
to  see  her,  and  then  she  said: 

"There's  the  little  matter  of  my  allowance,  too. — 
You're  none  too  prompt  about  it,  my  dear!  Your 
sisters  were  ahead  of  you,  this  time,  paying  me 
their  shares.  Seeing  the  state  I'm  in,  I  do  need  some 
help." 

Madeleine  blushed  and  took  the  blame: 

"You're  right;  I  deserve  to  be  scolded.  But  I'm 
going  to  give  you  your  money  to-day;  I've  got  it 
right  here,  Mother." 

She  drew  from  her  purse  first  a  gold  piece,  then 
a  silver  piece. 

"Here  are  your  twelve  francs,"  she  said. 

The  mother  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  Usually 
Madeleine  added  something  to  the  agreed  sum,  be- 
cause she  was  the  eldest  and  earned  more  money 
than  her  sisters. 

"So  you're  not  in  funds  just  now,  are  you*?"  the 
231 


232  N  E  N  E 

mother  remarked.  "You  must  be  spending  a  lot 
of  money!" 

Madeleine  blushed  again;  she  opened  her  purse, 
took  out  a  five-franc  piece,  then  one  of  two  francs, 
and  finally  decided  on  a  one-franc  piece. 

"I  am  kind  of  short,"  she  replied;  "however,  I 
can  give  you  this." 

She  might  have  said : 

"No,  indeed,  I'm  not  in  funds !  I've  been  giving 
money  to  my  brother,  though  he  had  promised  never 
to  ask  me  for  any  again. — Then  there  are  the  chil- 
dren that  you  see  there:  I've  bought  them  so  many 
things  that  my  wages  are  all  spent." 

But  she  would  have  found  it  very  difficult  to  say 
this  last  thing :  it  was  a  secret  preciously  guarded. 

Lalie  was  on  her  lap ;  she  hugged  the  child  a  little 
tighter. 

"Is  this  little  dear  the  one  who  was  burned?" 
asked  Mme.  Clarandeau.  "I  hadn't  seen  her  since. 
She  must  have  suffered  a  great  deal !" 

"Oh,  if  you  knew !    If  you  knew !" 

That  started  Madeleine's  tongue  going.  She  told 
all  about  the  accident,  all  about  the  visit  of  the 
young  doctor,  about  that  of  the  old  practitioner  and 
about  the  anger  of  Red  Julie;  then  she  related  other 
troubles:  colds,  frostbite  and  Jo's  measles  that 
had  looked  bad  for  a  while. 

Her  subject  carried  her  away  and  it  seemed  as  if 
she'd  go  on  forever. 


N  E  N  E  233 

Mme.  Clarandeau  smiled: 

"You  love  them  as  if  you  were  their  mother." 

"Yes,"  said  Madeleine,  "I  do." 

"You've  been  there  four  years  now.  You're 
likely  to  stay  there  a  long  time  since  Corbier  isn't 
marrying  again.  You  must  have  your  hands  full." 

"I  have,  but  I  like  it.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  I 
have  so  little  time  to  take  the  children  out.  You 
see  how  it  is :  even  to-day  I  must  hurry  back  early. — 
I'd  better  leave  you  now;  it's  time." 

"So  soon?" 

"Yes,  I'm  alone  with  just  one  hand.  Michael 
went  away  early,  I  don't  know  where,  to  town  per- 
haps, because  he  was  all  dressed  up.  I've  got  to 
be  home  to  see  to  everything." 

"Just  wait  a  minute  till  I  get  the  children  some 
bread  and  jam." 

Madeleine's  eyes  lighted  up  and  all  her  face 
thanked  her. 

"You're  spoiling  them,  Mother,"  she  said. 
"They'll  keep  at  me  to  bring  them  here  again!" 

Without  another  word  she  hunted  in  her  purse 
and  put  one  more  coin  on  the  table.  Then  they  took 
their  leave. 

On  the  way  home  the  children  skipped  to  right 
and  left,  munching  their  bread  and  jam.  Madeleine 
went  leading  them  along,  smilingly. 

For  some  time  now  she  had  begun  again  to  feel 
happy;  her  old  fortitude  and  even  temper  were  be- 


234  N  E  N  E 

ing  restored  little  by  little.  "You're  likely  to  stay 
there  a  long  time,"  her  mother  had  said.  A  long 
time !  Why,  she  was  there  for  always ! 

"Jo!  come  on,  darling!" 

The  child  had  stopped  at  a  cross  path  and  stood 
up  by  a  low  fence. 

"Look,Nene!" 

Madeleine  looked  and  saw  a  young  girl  hurrying 
along,  weeping ;  she  recognised  her  little  sister  Tien- 
nette,  and  didn't  have  time  to  be  surprised :  the  girl 
vaulted  the  fence  at  once  to  tell  her  troubles. 

"I'm  going  home ! — I've  stood  it  long  enough ! — 
I'm  not  a  thief! — The  rest, — let  it  pass,  but  not 
that !  I  won't  ever  go  back  there !  Last  year  I  was 
all  right  there,  but,  at  present,  I  don't  know  what's 
come  over  them !" 

Madeleine  took  her  hands  and  drew  her  to  the 
side  of  the  road. 

"What's  happened?    Tell  me !" 

"I'm  not  a  thief!"  the  girl  kept  saying;  "I  won't 
have  them  look  as  if  they  thought  I  was!  There 
isn't  a  thing  they  can  bring  up  against  me ! " 

"Calm  yourself — sit  down  here." 

They  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  ditch,  but  it  was 
quite  a  while  before  Tiennette  was  herself  again. 
After  a  bit,  Madeleine  began  to  grasp  the  situation. 

Tiennette  had  been  hired  out  to  a  Catholic  farmer 
at  a  hamlet  near  Chantepie.  This  was  her  second 
year  at  the  place.  At  first  all  had  gone  well  between 


N  E  N  E  235 

her,  the  masters  and  the  other  servants  in  the  ham- 
let. But  at  All-Saints  some  new  farm-hands  had 
come  and  made  mischief  all  round.  They  had 
started  by  keeping  aloof  from  her  because  she  was 
the  only  Dissenter  among  them;  then  they  had 
spread  all  sorts  of  gossip  about  her:  she'd  been  seen 
going  to  this  place,  doing  that  thing — misbehaving 
herself 

"There's  a  sorry  specimen  hanging  around  there 
a  lot  now,  that  Boiseriot  who  was  discharged  at  the 
Moulinettes. — They  listen  to  him  because  he's  such 
a  devout  Catholic. — I  believe  it's  he  who  invents  all 
the  talk  against  me." 

"You  may  be  sure  of  it,"  said  Madeleine.  "He's 
a  wicked  man  and  not  to  be  trusted." 

"From  the  day  he  came  to  the  neighbourhood,  at 
All-Saints,  my  mistress  has  been  horrid  to  me,  and 
things  have  been  going  from  bad  to  worse.  They're 
openly  on  guard  against  me  now;  when  I'm  left 
alone  in  the  house,  they  lock  up  everything !  I  can't 
stand  it!  Yesterday  a  pair  of  scissors  got  mislaid, 
and  this  morning,  while  I  was  at  rosary  prayers,  they 
opened  my  chest  and  went  through  all  my  things! 
Would  you  believe  it*?  Do  I  look  like  a  thief?  I 
told  them  what  I  thought  and  here  I  am.  Mamma 
can  go  for  my  things  if  she  wants  to;  but  as  for  me, 
I'll  never  set  foot  in  their  house  again!" 

Tiennette  burst  again  into  sobs;  Madeleine  did 
what  she  could  to  comfort  her. 


236  N  E  N  E 

"Tiennette,  come  now!  Tiennette!  There's  no 
reason  to  get  into  such  a  state." 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  know!"  sobbed  the  girl. 
"He'll  hear  about  it  and  then  what'll  he  think?" 

"Whom  do  you  mean*?" 

"Why — why,  Gideon.  He's  away.  I  can't  talk 
to  him  and  defend  myself.  They're  capable  of  writ- 
ing to  him  to  blacken  my  character;  they  tried  it 
once  before !  And  didn't  they  come  and  tell  me  he 
was  sick  in  hospital?  And  it  wasn't  true  at  all,  as 
I  found  out !" 

Madeleine  thought  it  her  duty  to  say  severely : 

"Why  do  you  listen  to  that  Protestant?" 

Tiennette  threw  back  her  head,  ready  to  defend 
herself  against  this  new  attack: 

"So  you're  against  him  too?  What  has  he  done, 
can  you  tell  me,  that  you  all  think  less  of  him  than 
of  the  others?" 

Madeleine  replied,  this  time  with  great  gentle- 
ness: 

"No,  dear,  I'm  not  against  him;  in  fact  I  like  him 
very  much." 

"Well,  then!  What's  wrong,  since  we  love  each 
other  for  ever  and  ever? — since  we're  going  to  be 
married !" 

"A  Dissenter  marry  a  Protestant!  It  would  be 
the  first  time  it  happened!" 

"What's  wrong  about  it,  I'd  like  to  know?  What 
difference  is  it  to  you?  What  difference  is  it  to 


N  E  N  E  237 

Mother  and  Fridoline  and  John  and  all  the  rest  of 
you"?  If  he  claims  me  for  his  own,  you  haven't  a 
thing  to  say  about  it ! — If  he  doesn't  worry  about  the 
difference  of  religion,  that's  his  affair! — When  he 
gets  his  discharge  from  the  army,  I'll  be  ready :  I've 
pledged  myself!" 

Madeleine  let  her  go  on  and  it  saddened  her  to 
find  her  little  sister  too,  now,  as  well  as  her  brother, 
so  careless  about  things  that,  to  her  own  way  of 
thinking,  were  so  eminently  worthy  of  respect;  but 
she  was  surprised,  also,  and  a  little  moved,  at  seeing 
this  young  love  rise  sovereign  above  all  else. 

"Yes,"  continued  her  sister,  "we  both  pledged 
ourselves. — But  now — what  if  he  should  be  made 
to  believe  that  I'm  a  thief?  Oh,  Madeleine,  I  don't 
know  what  to  do !  I'm  so  miserable ! " 

Madeleine  gripped  her  little  sister's  shoulders 
very  tenderly. 

"Come,  come,  dear!  Stop  crying  and  wipe  your 
eyes!  There,  now! — I  know  the  cause  of  all  this 
trouble:  it's  an  old  grudge,  'way  back  when — oh, 
well,  there  are  old  things  you  don't  know  about. — 
I'm  going  to  write  to  Gideon  myself;  as  soon  as  he 
knows  that  Boiseriot  was  your  neighbour  at  the 
farm,  he'll  understand.  I  promise  you  he  won't 
doubt  you  for  a  single  moment." 

"Really  and  truly?" 

"I  promise  you.    .You've  been  making  a  mountain 


238  N  E  N  E 

of  a  molehill,  you  poor  child!  That  isn't  being  a 
sensible  girl,  now,  is  it?" 

For  a  while  they  said  nothing  further,  so  that  the 
children  ventured  to  come  closer. 

Tiennette's  smile  came  back  through  her  tears  as 
she  patted  Jo's  curly  head. 

"He  was  the  first  to  see  me,  the  little  darling," 
she  said  to  Madeleine. 

Somehow  the  child  brought  back  a  recollection 
through  trie  mist  of  her  present  trouble,  and  she 
blurted  out : 

"This  Boiseriot  certainly  is  a  wicked  sort  of  ras- 
cal. He  doesn't  like  you  any  better  than  he  does 
me,  it  would  seem." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  asked  Madeleine 
anxiously. 

"Day  before  yesterday  I  heard  him  talking  to 
Jules  the  natural,  telling  him  the  news — and  there 
was  one  piece  of  news  for  you,  that  no  doubt  you 
didn't  like  to  hear. — But,  of  course,  you  must  have 
known  it  long  before  Boiseriot !" 

Madeleine's  fingers  tightened  on  Tiennette's 
shoulders. 

"Jules?  I  haven't  seen  him  lately — he  hasn't 
come  around.  .  .  .  What  news  do  you  mean?  I 
haven't  any  news " 

"Is  that  so?  At  Chantepie  everybody's  talking 
about  it." 

"But  go  on,  tell  me !    What  is  it?" 


N  E  N  E  239 

White  as  death,  Madeleine  was  panting  for 
breath.  But  the  little  sister  didn't  notice  it  and  de- 
livered her  news  lightly,  almost  scoffingly : 

"Well,  it's  this:  that  poor  fool,  Michael  Corbier, 
is  going  to  marry  Violette,  the  dressmaker.  The 
thing's  to  take  place  toward  early  summer.  This 
very  day  he's  supposed  to  buy  her  engagement  ring." 

Only  then  Tiennette  felt  her  sister's  hands  glide 
off  her  shoulders.  She  turned  around:  Madeleine 
lay  against  the  slope  of  the  ditch  in  a  faint. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ALL  at  once,  Madeleine  made  up  her  mind  that 
Lalie  should  be  sent  to  school.  The  notion 
struck  her  unexpectedly;  a  queer  notion,  for  her;  but 
she  had  had  many  others  as  queer  since  the  bad 
news. 

She  had  suddenly  thought  herself  very  guilty  in 
keeping  such  a  big  girl — going  on  eight  years  now — 
from  getting  the  proper  schooling. 

"Oft  to  school  with  you,  my  dear!  It's  high  time ! 
I've  taught  you  to  read  and  to  make  your  letters, 
but  for  giving  you  any  of  the  higher  instruction,  I'm 
not  studied  enough!  So,  off  to  school  you  go, — or 
you'd  blame  me  later." 

Then,  too,  she  was  afraid  of  being  blamed  when 
the  Stranger  should  have  taken  her  place; — afraid 
of  being  called  less  sensible,  less  vigilant  than  she. 
So  she  decided  not  even  to  wait  for  the  Easter  term, 
which  was  near. 

But  she  wanted  the  little  girl  to  be  fitted  out  all 
new  and  beautifully.  And  as  for  using  the  house- 
hold money  for  that — why,  of  course  not ! 

So  she  went  back  to  the  savings  bank  and  drew 
out,  in  a  lump,  all  that  remained  there:  just  one 

hundred  francs.    Then,  while  she  was  in  town,  she 

240 


N  E  N  E  241 

did  all  her  shopping  so  that  on  the  following  day, 
which  was  Monday,  she  could  take  the  little  girl  to 
school. 

The  two  of  them  set  out  early,  Lalie  trotting 
ahead.  What  a  pretty  dress  it  was,  bought  ready 
made  from  a  town  dressmaker!  What  a  pretty 
dress,  and  what  a  nice  little  frilly  lunch  basket! 
Madeleine  was  swelled  with  pride.  Her  heart  was 
wrung — it  always  was  now — but  one  thought  gave 
her  solace : 

"Lalie — she'll  never  forget  me.  Whatever  hap- 
pens, when  she  thinks  back  to  the  early  years,  she'll 
say:  'The  first  time  I  went  to  school,  it  was 
Madeleine  took  me  there,  leading  me  by  the  hand/ 
— That's  a  thing  one  can't  forget." 

When  they  reached  Saint-Ambroise,  Madeleine 
bought  a  big  slice  of  shortbread  and  a  slice  of  meat 
loaf,  and  then  some  chocolate  and  chocolate  al- 
monds. 

"You'll  eat  the  shortbread  first  with  the  meat, 
then  the  jam  sandwich.  And  you'll  give  some  of 
the  candy  to  the  other  little  girls,  so  they'll  like 
you." 

Madeleine  knocked  at  the  principal's  door  to  pre- 
sent Lalie  and  give  the  necessary  information. 

The  principal  appeared.  She  was  an  elderly 
spinster  in  a  plain  black  dress.  She  asked  them  in; 
Madeleine  left  her  wooden  shoes  at  the  door,  but 
Lalie  stepped  forth  with  her  new  clogs  and  almost 


242  N  E  N  E 

took  a  tumble  because  the  floor  was  as  polished  as 
a  window  pane. 

The  principal  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote 
down  what  Madeleine  said: 

"Her  name  is  Eulalie  Corbier — born  at  the  Mou- 
linettes,  Nov.  27.  She's  only  seven,  but  misfortune 
didn't  wait  for  her  to  grow  up: — her  mother  is 
dead." 

The  teacher  said  calmly: 

"I  know.  I  had  her  mother  in  my  class.  She  was 
a  good  pupil,  too." 

"I'm  sure  she  was,"  replied  Madeleine,  "and  this 
child  will  be  just  as  clever — and  make  you  proud 
of  her.  Oh,  Mademoiselle,  I  wish  you'd  take  good 
care  of  her!" 

The  principal  had  finished  her  writing  and  looked 
up,  rather  surprised. 

"We  take  good  care  of  all  our  pupils,"  she  said. 

Madeleine  blushed. 

"I  know  you  do,"  she  stammered.  "I  have  heard 
your  school  praised  on  all  sides,  I  assure  you, 
Mademoiselle !  It's  only — just — that  this  little  girl 
is  not  quite  like  the  others." 

The  teacher  smiled  a  little,  ever  so  little! — but 
her  eyes  on  Madeleine  remained  calm  and  cold. 

Then  she,  too,  had  her  say,  in  a  very  few  words; 
and  there  was  neither  harshness  nor  gentleness  in  her 
voice : 

"You've  come  too  soon  or  too  late.     There  are 


N  E  N  E  243 

only  three  school  openings :  the  first  in  October,  the 
second  in  January,  and  the  third  at  Easter.  How- 
ever, as  this  child  is  past  the  age,  we  will  take  her — 
although  in  doing  so  I  am  going  beyond  the  rules." 

Then  she  rose  and  led  Madeleine  and  Lalie  to  the 
door,  saying: 

"You'll  excuse  me,  I  have  some  work  to  do — let 
the  little  girl  go  and  play  with  the  other  children." 

When  the  door  was  shut  Madeleine  felt  distressed. 
She  leaned  over  the  little  girl  and  whispered : 

"Lalie,  would  you  like  to  come  back  home?" 

Lalie  was  choking  down  sobs  herself  and  did  not 
answer. 

"If  you'd  rather,  darling,  we'll  just  go  back 
home. — Come,  let's  go!" 

She  straightened  up,  took  the  child  by  the  hand 
and  walked  towards  the  gate.  But  as  she  got  there, 
someone  was  just  passing  it  to  come  in.  It  was  a 
very  young  girl,  neither  tall  nor  pretty,  with  a  pale 
little  face  and  squinting  eyes. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said.  "Are  you  bringing 
me  a  new  pupil?" 

As  Madeleine  looked  perplexed,  she  explained : 

"I  am  the  assistant  teacher — she'll  be  in  my 
class." 

And  without  more  ado  she  stooped  down  and 
kissed  Lalie. 

"How  do  you  do,  dear !  Are  you  glad  you're  com- 
ing to  school?  I'll  give  you  a  pretty  book,  with 


244  N  E  N  E 

pictures  in  it! — And  we're  going  to  have  lots  of 
fun  together,  you'll  see !  What's  your  name,  dear?" 

"Her  name  is  Eulalie,"  said  Madeleine. 

"Eulalie,  do  you  like  to  play  with  dolls'?  Or  at 
hide  and  seek4?  I'll  show  you  a  pretty  'ring-around' 
dance. — Oh,  and  what  a  beautiful  dress  you  have, 
Eulalie!  I'd  like  to  have  one  just  like  it!  And  oh, 
look  at  your  lunch  basket!  Who  gave  you  such  a 
pretty  basket?" 

Lalie  smiled,  but  never  raised  her  eyes  from  the 
ground.  Madeleine  said: 

"Go  on,  don't  be  so  bashful,  Lalie!  Answer 
Mademoiselle." 

"Come,  answer  me,  won't  you?  I'm  not  a  wicked 
person  who'd  hurt  nice  little  girls! — Come,  where 
did  you  get  this  pretty  basket?" 

"Nene  gave  it  to  me." 

"Nene?" 

"She  means  me — that's  what  she  calls  me,"  said 
Madeleine.  "She's  lost  her  mother;  I've  brought  her 
up,  and  her  little  brother  too." 

The  assistant  teacher  picked  up  the  child  in  her 
arms  and  held  her  close;  as  she  noticed  the  scar  on 
Lalie's  cheek,  she  asked : 

"What  has  happened  to  her?" 

"She  was  burned,"  said  Madeleine.  "She's  had 
a  lot  of  bad  luck,  poor  angel. — See,  her  hair  hasn't 
all  grown  out  yet  and  her  poor  little  hands  won't 
ever  get  right  again." 


N  E  N  E  245 

The  teacher's  pale  little  face  turned  quite  white 
and  her  tender  squinting  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
Madeleine  had  to  wipe  her  own  eyes. 

"It  wasn't  my  fault,  I  can  assure  you,  Mademoi- 
selle; I  wouldn't  want  you  to  think  so,  because  it 
wouldn't  be  justice.  If  they'd  only  listened  to  me, 
this  thing  wouldn't  have  happened, — so  I  don't  have 
to  blame  myself  for  it.  You  see,  Mademoiselle,  I'm 
fond  of  the  child — I  can't  tell  you  how  fond! — A 
person  does  get  fond  of  a  child  so  quickly,  isn't  that 
so? — I'm  glad  you're  going  to  take  her  in  your  class. 
I  know  you'll  watch  over  her.  Don't  let  her  run 
too  much  and  get  overheated,  will  you?  She  has  all 
she  needs  for  her  lunch.  She'll  remember  anything 
you  teach  her;  she's  clever,  let  me  tell  you!  She 
knows  how  to  read  and  as  for  writing — well,  you'll 
see  how  beautifully  she  can  write!  I'm  not  very 
educated,  especially  not  in  arithmetic;  or  else  I'd 
have  taught  her  a  lot  more.  She'll  grow  fond  of 
you,  Mademoiselle;  you  won't  have  to  scold  her, 
I'm  sure!  Besides,  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  be  hard 
with  a  poor  motherless  mite " 

Five  or  six  little  girls  had  come  running  from  the 
far  end  of  the  yard,  with  eyes  and  ears  wide  open. 
Madeleine  cried  softly. 

The  teacher  covered  the  poor  little  deformed 
hands  with  kisses  and  cried  too ;  big,  bright  tears  ran 
down  undisturbed  over  her  white  face. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  she  said;  "I'll  watcli 


246  N  E  N  E 

over  her;  I'll  love  her  quite  as  much  as  the  others, 
and  perhaps  a  little  more." 

Then  she  dried  her  eyes  and  her  gentle  smile  re- 
turned. 

"We  mustn't  cry,"  she  said,  "we  aren't  being  sen- 
sible !  That  isn't  the  way  to  make  children  feel  at 
home  and  comfy !" 

Turning  to  the  yard,  she  called : 

"Jeanne!    Elise!" 

Two  pretty,  bright-looking  little  girls  ran  up  to 
her. 

"Come  here! — We've  got  a  new  pupil,  and  her 
name  is  Eulalie. — Give  her  a  kiss  and  take  her  by 
the  hand. — That's  right!  .  .  .  I'll  carry  the  basket. 
We'll  go  and  look  the  school  over,  and  then  we'll 
play."  In  a  whisper  she  advised  Madeleine: 

"You'd  better  go  now;  good-bye,  and  don't 
worry!" 

She  went  away  down  the  yard,  chatting  brightly 
with  the  three  little  girls.  Suddenly  Madeleine 
called : 

"Lalie!" 

Lalie  turned  round,  hesitating  whether  to  run 
to  her  or  stay.  Madeleine  had  not  moved  from  the 
spot  and  she  was  frantically  wiping  her  eyes  and 
blowing  her  nose. 

"Lalie!    Good-bye,  darling!" 

The  young  teacher  raised  her  hand  and  laughingly 
motioned  her  to  "go  away!  go  away!"  But  as 


N  E  N  E  247 

Madeleine  still  would  not  move,  she  took  the  chil- 
dren with  her  into  the  school-house. 

Only  then  did  Madeleine  start  off.  She  went 
away  at  a  quick  pace,  almost  at  a  run;  then,  little 
by  little,  she  slowed;  her  feet  dragged;  she  stopped. 

Had  she  said  all  she  had  meant  to  say? — How 
stupid  of  her,  now!  She  had  forgotten  to  tell  the 
teacher  not  to  fail  making  Lalie  put  on  her  cape  after 
school! — What  if  Lalie  grew  homesick?  What 
would  the  teacher  do  then? — What  if  she  should 
start  crying?  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  take  her 
home  right  now  ? 

Madeleine  walked  back  toward  the  school.  Class 
had  begun;  she  did  not  dare  pass  through  the  gate 
into  the  yard,  so  she  stayed  outside,  on  the  road, 
and  sat  down  on  a  stone  at  the  foot  of  the  school 
wall. 

The  voices  from  the  two  classes  came  vaguely  to 
her  ears.  From  one  classroom  there  came  a  sort  of 
even  murmur,  a  hum  of  low  voices.  The  other  room- 
ful of  children  was  noisier;  wooden  shoes  shuffled 
about,  pencil  boxes  clattered  to  the  floor;  sweet  little 
voices  recited  the  alphabet  after  a  deeper  voice  that 
for  all  its  lower  tone  was  yet  young  and  flexible; 
and  all  at  once  there  were  peals  of  laughter. 

"They're  having  a  good  time  of  it,  the  tots," 
thought  Madeleine.  "I  hope  they're  not  making  fun 
of  Lalie.  Perhaps  that's  why  they  laugh  so 
much " 


248  NENE 

She  got  up  and  moved  over  directly  under  the 
young  teacher's  classroom  windows. 

A  merry  miller  passed  by  and  began  to  tease  her. 
Then  Bouju  came  along,  driving  a  cart — that  same 
Bouju  who  had  asked  her  in  marriage  not  so  long 
ago.  He  stopped  his  horse  to  wish  her  a  good  day 
and  inquire  after  Mme.  Clarandeau,  Tiennette  and 
all  the  family. 

Madeleine  answered  straight  and  quick,  in  as  few 
words  as  possible.  It  annoyed  her  not  to  hear  the 
voices  from  the  classroom  any  more. 

When  Bouju  went  on  his  way,  the  school  bell 
rang  for  recess.  Madeleine  ran  to  the  gate,  but  the 
young  teacher,  having  seen  her,  came  quickly 
toward  her: 

"Don't  let  her  see  you,"  she  whispered.  "You 
would  have  been  wiser  to  go  away. — Everything  is 
going  along  nicely.  I  think  she'll  soon  feel  quite  at 
home  with  us.  Besides,  she's  already  a  big  girl, 
and  sensible. — See,  there  she  is,  dancing  in  the  rounc|/ 
with  the  others. — But  hide  yourself,  please !" 

Madeleine  returned  to  the  road;  the  teacher  hur- 
ried back  to  the  children  and  joined  in  their  round 
dance  right  beside  Lalie. 

"Now  it's  your  turn,  dear  .  .  .  your  turn  to 
stand  in  the  middle !  Whom  are  you  going  to  kiss?" 

Lalie  came  up  to  her  bashfully,  and  when  the 
teacher  bent  down,  she  threw  her  little  arms  around 
her  neck. 


N  E  N  E  249 

"Lalie!  Lalie!  don't  forget  your  cape,  after 
school!" 

All  heads  turned  round.  Who  was  that  person 
of  whom  only  the  upper  part  of  the  face  could  be 
seen  above  the  wall?  The  teacher  shrugged  her 
shoulders ;  Lalie  smiled  and  blushed — and  it  was  she 
who  was  the  first  to  start  the  game  again. 

The  blonde  hair  and  the  swollen  eyes  disappeared 
from  above  the  wall. 

"She  feels  at  home  already. — I'm  glad! — She's 
put  me  out  of  her  mind  already. — How  she  hugged 
the  teacher! — I  was  so  worried,  and  now  it's  all 
right. — All  the  better!  I'm  glad,  very  glad!" 

All  along  the  way  to  the  Moulinettes  Madeleine 
kept  mumbling:  "I'm  glad!" — the  while  big  tears 
were  blinding  her. 

Of  that  first  school  day  Lalie  made  a  whole  long 
tale: 

"If  you  knew,  Nene,  how  much  fun  we're  having! 
Teacher  made  me  sing;  she  says  I'll  be  at  the  head 
of  the  class." 

"Do  you  like  her  already,  your  teacher?" 

"Indeed  I  do !  She's  lovely !  When  you  kiss  her, 
her  hair  smells  good.  She  gave  me  a  paper  rose." 

"Like  the  one  I  bought  for  you  at  the  Saint- 
Ambroise  fair?" 

"Oh,  much  prettier." 

Madeleine  thought: 


250  NENE 

"It's  lucky  the  young  lady  knew  so  well  how  to 
get  round  Lalie! " 

And  her  heart  was  heavy. 

As  she  was  getting  supper,  she  saw  the  little  girl 
very  busy  looking  at  herself  in  a  mirror;  she  crept 
noiselessly  near :  Lalie  was  trying  to  squint,  in  order 
to  look  like  the  teacher. 

The  following  afternoon  it  was  the  same  tale  of 

joy. 

"You  haven't  once  been  scolded?"  asked  Made- 
leine. 

"Scolded?    Why  scolded?" 

"And  all  those  hours,  you  don't  once  get  a  little 
homesick?  Don't  you  think  of  Jo? — nor  of  me?" 

"Never!" 

Madeleine  did  not  ask  her  anything  more. 

On  Wednesday  she  hunted  up  some  reason  for 
keeping  Lalie  out  of  school,  but  there  was  such  weep- 
ing and  wailing  that  she  had  to  let  her  go. 

Thus  the  week  passed.  Lalie  talked  about  noth- 
ing but  her  school,  her  teacher.  At  night  she  talked 
of  them  in  her  dreams,  and  this  caused  Madeleine 
a  hidden  pang  of  which  she  was  ashamed. 

The  Monday  following,  she  had  a  flash  of  guilty 
joy.  She  had  gone  toward  Saint-Ambroise,  about 
four  o'clock,  to  wait  for  Lalie.  When  the  little  girl 
came  in  sight  with  her  basket  on  her  arm,  Madeleine 
saw  that  she  was  walking  wistfully  and  that  her 
eyes  were  red. 


NENE  251 

With  a  bound  she  was  beside  her  and  picked  her 
up  in  her  arms : 

"What's  the  matter?  You've  been  crying!  Did 
she  scold  you?" 

Lalie  burst  into  sobs. 

"Oh,  she  scolded  you,  she  scolded  you,  did  she?" 

Lalie  shook  her  head : 

"No!    No!" 

But  Madeleine,  without  listening,  went  on  hug- 
ging and  petting  her,  setting  her  down  and  picking 
her  up  again. 

"Oh,  the  wicked  girl ! — She  hurt  you !" 

"No!    No!" 

"What  did  she  do  to  you?  Tell  me!  I'll  give 
her  a  good  scolding! — Such  a  wicked  girl! — And 
you  won't  have  to  go  to  her  school  any  more." 

Lalie  struggled  until  she  managed  to  slip  to  the 
ground;  then  she  cried  in  high  dudgeon: 

"She's  not  wicked!  I  won't  let  you  scold  her. 
Who  told  you  she  hurt  me?" 

"But  here  you  are,  still  crying !" 

"I'm  crying  on  account  of  the  girls — they  won't  be 
good — they  won't  learn  to  read. — She  said  she'd  go 
away  and  we'd  never  see  her  any  more !" 

Madeleine  stood  perplexed,  with  empty  arms 
dangling,  looking  at  the  child,  and  her  heart  was 
torn  with  jealousy. 

Next  morning  she  announced  that  Lalie  was  look- 


252  N  E  N  E 

ing  out  of  sorts,  that  she'd  been  coughing  all  night, 
and  that  she  shouldn't  go  to  school. 

The  child  set  up  a  yell,  but  Madeleine  stuck  to 
her  guns  and  had  her  way. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

YOUR  mother  isn't  very  strong,  these  days;  her 
rheumatism  has  been  at  her  again.  She's  com- 
plaining of  you  because  you  don't  come  to  see  her." 

It  was  a  little  old  man  from  Le  Coudray,  passing 
by  the  Moulinettes,  who  was  giving  to  Madeleine 
the  news  of  her  home  village. 

She  shook  her  head  and  said  with  a  touch  of  im- 
patience : 

"But  I  haven't  got  time!  On  top  of  my  work, 
I've  got  to  look  after  the  children.  Isn't  my  brother 
close  by  her  at  present? — And  my  sisters,  with 
almost  all  their  Sundays  free,  can't  they  go  over  to 
Le  Coudray?" 

"You  are  the  eldest,"  said  the  old  man;  "you 
ought  to  be  the  first  to  be  the  prop  and  stay  of  your 
mother." 

And  then,  for  his  own  satisfaction,  he  launched 
into  a  long  homily  full  of  bitterness. 

"Old  people  are  always  in  the  wrong. — What 
right  have  they  on  earth? — So  long  as  they're  able 
to  work,  well  and  good ! — but  after  that,  they'd  bet- 
ter die  right  away." 

Madeleine  interrupted  him: 

"All  right !  you  can  tell  my  mother  that  I'll  go  to 

253 


254  N  E  N  E 

see  her  one  of  these  days.  Tell  her  not  to  worry  and 
take  good  care  of  herself,  so  she'll  be  well  again 
when  I  come." 

The  old  man  promptly  took  her  up : 

"Take  good  care  of  herself!  How  can  she"? 
Where  will  she  get  the  money  to  buy  what  she  needs, 
can  you  tell  me  that*?" 

Madeleine  blushed : 

"I  know  I'm  a  little  behindhand. — Ask  her  please 
to  forgive  me." 

"To  my  way  of  thinking,  she's  already  forgiven 
more  than  she  should. — I  happen  to  know  that  this 
is  the  third  time  she's  reminded  you.  For  my  part, 
I  wouldn't  have  her  patience — no,  ma'am!" 

Madeleine's  cheeks  grew  scarlet. 

"Well,  if  you'll  wait  a  minute,  I'll  fetch  the 
money  now,  and  you  can  give  it  to  her." 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  wardrobe,  where  the 
money  drawer  was,  and  said  half  to  herself : 

"It's  only  that  I'm  not  in  funds  myself,  right 
now " 

She  emptied  her  purse  in  the  drawer. 

Could  it  be  possible*?  All  that  remained  was  12 
francs,  exactly  what  she  wanted  to  send  her  mother. 
These  last  weeks  she  had  spent  and  spent,  and  now 
— here  was  the  last  of  her  store.  What  was  to  be 
done?  Oh,  well,  Fridoline  would  have  to  contribute 
a  little  more,  Tiennette  would  have  to  do  without  a 
new  ribbon !  She  simply  couldn't  spare  any  of  her 


NENE  255 

last  few  pennies!  How  could  she  refuse  the  chil- 
dren any  wish,  now  that  she  was  going  to  lose  them? 
Not  she ! 

She  closed  the  purse,  closed  the  drawer,  closed  the 
wardrobe.  And  to  the  astonished  old  man,  she  said : 

"On  second  thought,  my  mother  will  have  to  wait 
a  little.  I'll  bring  her  the  money  myself,  as  I  want 
to  have  a  talk  with  her." 


CHAPTER  XV 

NOW,  what  can  this  one  be  after  again?" 
Just  as  the  old  man  had  gone,  Madeleine 
saw  her  brother  coming. 

His  face  was  very  red  and  his  eyes  glittered.  He 
trudged  in  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"H'lo,  there,  Madelon!" 

She  answered  coldly : 

"Hello  yourself!    What  is  it  you  want?" 

He  laughed: 

"As  if  you  didn't  know!" 

"I  don't." 

He  winked  and  made  a  gesture  as  of  counting 
money  on  the  table. 

"Money!  More  money!  You've  come  at  the 
wrong  time :  I'm  not  handing  out  any  more  money." 

"I'm  not  begging  for  a  gift,  I'm  asking  for  a  loan. 
And  you  needn't  be  afraid — you  know  me:  I'm  your 
brother!" 

Madeleine  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Give  you  money  so  you  can  go  to  the  wineshop 
and  get  drunk  again,  as  you  are  right  now?  Or  so 
you  can  take  it  again  to  that  hussy?  Is  that  what 
you  want  it  for?  Well,  no  and  no  and  no!  I'm 
through !" 

Trooper  got  up,  instantly  roused  to  anger. 

256 


NENE  257 

"What  I've  got  to  say  is  that  you're  talking  rot, 
Madeleine,  and  that  you've  deeply  offended  me.  I'll 
never  forget  your  words;  they'll  stand  between  us 
for  life.  You  talk  like  a  person  without  heart  or 
brain,  who's  never  loved  anybody." 

Th'at  made  her  turn  on  him  in  a  flash. 

"Shut  up !  Get  out !  You're  driving  me  mad,  all 
of  you!  Be  still! — You  say  I  don't  love  anybody? 
Well,  look  out  there,  in  the  garden! — Do  you  see 
those  children?  You've  got  two  of  them  right  there 
before  your  eyes,  whom  I  love !  And  I  think  they're 
as  worth  while  as  anybody,  as  worth  while  as  the 
hussy  who's  making  you  crazy  and  wicked  and 
cowardly ! — You  make  me  laugh  with  your  airs,  the 
lot  of  you !  Sitting  around  and  chanting :  'We  love 
Peter  or  Paul  or  Mary  or  Jane — poor  Madeleine, 

she  doesn't  understand Is  that  so!  I  don't 

understand,  don't  I ! — Without  looking  any  farther, 
take  those  children :  I'd  go  through  hellfire  for  them ! 
Does  that  count  for  anything  with  you  fools? — Just 
look  at  them,  you  great  big  idiot,  you !" 

With  both  her  hands  flat  on  his  chest,  she  pushed 
her  brother  to  the  door. 

"Look  at  them !  I  want  you  to  look  at  them !  I 
should  think  they're  as  lovely  to  look  at  as  your 
Violette,  any  day;  and  they  won't  betray  me  as  she 
has  betrayed  you!  And  now  they're  going  to  be 
snatched  away  from  me,  and  who'd  be  doing  that 
fine  piece  of  work  but  your  Violette !" 


258  N  E  N  E 

"That's  not  true!" 

"Not  true?  Have  you  lost  your  wits  altogether? 
— The  wedding  is  going  to  take  place  in  three 
weeks." 

Trooper  fell  back  aghast  and  words  of  utter 
misery  came  droning  from  his  big  chest. 

"Madeleine,  the  curse  of  God  is  on  my  life !" 

"Is  there  any  blessing  on  mine*?  But  who  cares? 
Not  you,  at  all  events !  All  you  care  about  is  Vio- 
lette! — Get  out  of  my  sight! — You'd  give  her  my 
money,  would  you?  And  she'd  be  mean  enough  to 
take  it,  too !  Anyhow,  it  isn't  my  money — it  belongs 
to  those  children  out  there.  As  it  is,  your  jade  has 
stolen  quite  enough  from  them ! — I  hate  her !  You 
don't  know  how  I  hate  her!  You  don't  know  any- 
thing! There  was  that  little  girl,  the  prettiest  in 
the  county,  the  prettiest  in  the  world,  and  the 
cleverest — Lalie!  And  all  through  your  Violette  I 
almost  saw  her  killed — burned  alive !  And  now,  as 
if  that  wasn't  enough,  she's  going  to  take  her  from 
me!  She's  going  to  take  Lalie,  she's  going  to  take 
Jo,  she's  going  to  take  everything! — Everything 
I've  taught  them  she'll  say  was  a  lie !  She'll  change 
their  religion,  she'll  change  their  hearts,  she'll  wipe 
even  my  name  from  their  memory!  Damnation! 
how  I  hate  her !  And  you  who  dare  talk  to  me  about 
her — get  out !  Get  out !" 

Retreating  before  her,  Trooper  had  reached  the 


NENE  259 

threshold,  but  he  heard  not  a  word  she  said.  In  his 
drunken  eyes  the  flame  of  madness  burned. 

He  threw  up  his  one  arm  and  his  powerful  hand 
opened  and  clutched,  opened  and  clutched  like  an 
iron  claw,  again  and  again,  as  he  cried : 

"The  curse  of  God  is  on  my  life !  If  I  meet  that 
man — God  pity  him !  I'll  swing  for  him !" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MICHAEL  returned  from  Chantepie  where  he 
had  attended  to  the  last  formalities.  Every- 
thing was  settled :  he  would  be  baptised  on  the  Sun- 
day before  the  wedding.  The  priest  had  consented 
to  do  the  thing  simply,  quietly,  without  pomp,  with- 
out parade  of  victory,  and  Michael  was  glad  of  it. 
He  told  his  joy  to  Madeleine,  whom  he  was  now 
keeping  posted  about  everything.  She  answered 
merely  a  word  or  two  in  a  tone  of  polite  indifference. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  children: 

"I  didn't  forget  you,"  he  said.    "Here,  Jo!" 

He  handed  the  baby  a  bagful  of  sugar  almonds. 

"You,  too,  Lalie!    See  what  I've  got!" 

Madeleine  stopped  her  work  while  Lalie  came  to 
her  father,  all  curiosity. 

'"Look  at  this  box! — Did  you  ever  see  such  a 
pretty  one?" 

He  set  on  the  table  a  little  work  box  covered  with 
blue  plush  and  opened  it  with  a  tiny  key. 

"See,  it's  fitted  out  with  everything  necessary  for 
sewing. — And  the  name  that's  marked  here, — can 
you  read  it?" 

The  little  girl  spelled  out: 

"Eu-la-lie.    That's  my  name !" 
260 


NENE  261 

Lalie  passed  the  box  to  Madeleine,  who  opened  it 
and  immediately  looked  for  the  name.  There  it  was, 
on  a  little  square  of  finely  sewed-in  linen,  embroid- 
ered in  coloured  thread, — and  not  badly  done. 

Madeleine  pinched  her  lips  and  her  eyes  grew 
hard  and  strange.  Nervously  she  closed  the  box, 
opened  it  again,  closed  it — click !  click ! — And  all  at 
once  her  clumsy  fingers  went  through  the  cardboard, 
breaking  the  cover,  crushing  the  whole  box. 

'Well,  now!"  she  said,  "I've  broken  it!— It 
wasn't  well  made;  I'll  buy  you  a  better  one." 

Then  she  took  the  two  children  by  the  hand  and 
went  out  of  the  house  with  them. 

The  earth  was  resting  under  the  clear  sky.  Night 
had  not  yet  fallen,  but  through  this  Sunday  twilight 
there  came  no  sound  of  men  at  work  in  the  fields. 
The  wind  was  dead;  there  was  neither  stress  nor 
effort  anywhere.  All  living  things  were  at  rest. 

Madeleine  had  led  the  children  out  to  the  pond 
and  had  seated  herself  with  them  under  the  sleeping 
branches  of  the  big  oak. 

Peace  pervaded  everything  around.  The  children 
did  not  play;  they  moved  gently  and  asked  unex- 
pected questions. 

Madeleine  gave  them  slow,  dreamy  answers. 

She  had  come  to  this  spot  as  on  a  pilgrimage. 
Under  this  same  oak  tree,  on  a  day  just  like  this,  a 
great  emotion  had  filled  her  heart  to  overflowing. 
Joy  had  been  hers  then  and,  by  the  grace  of  youth 


262  NENE 

and  the  illusion  of  a  nascent  love,  the  happy  hours 
in  store  lay  like  a  gleaming,  endless  rosary  before 
her.  Now  she  was  broken;  now  she  dared  no  longer 
look  ahead;  now  she  had  come  to  say  good-bye. 

Ten  days  more  and  Corbier  would  be  married. 
One  short  week  was  all  that  was  left  for  her  at  the 
Moulinettes.  One  week! — and  then  go  away! — 
away  from  Lalie,  away  from  Jo ; — a  new  life  to  set 
out  on ! — Death  would  be  sweeter ! 

Oh,  but  it  couldn't  be  true,  it  must  be  a  bad 
dream !  She'd  wake  up,  be  tortured  no  more ;  she'd 
find  Lalie's  head  on  her  breast — and  right  there, 
from  the  little  bed  alongside  of  hers,  Jo  would  say 
with  laughing  eyes: 

"Nene,  you've  been  sleeping  and  sleeping,  ever  so 
long!" 

No,  this  dreadful  thing  couldn't  possibly  happen ! 
She'd  pray — the  God  of  mercy  wouldn't  let  it  hap- 
pen.— He'd  cast  a  rock  in  the  path  of  the  crushing 
wheel; — He'd  hurl  the  threatening  chariot  into  the 
ditch  by  the  wayside; — surely  there'd  be  some  acci- 
dent, some  unforeseen  salvation ! 

"Nene,  what  are  the  clouds  made  of?  Where  do 
they  go?" 

"They  are  God's  little  sheep  going  to  pasture." 

The  clear  sky  was  spread,  out  like  a  beautiful 
meadow  after  haying;  little  billows  floating  across 
it  here  and  there  made  the  blue  dome  seem  low  and 
close. 


NENE  263 

Jo  said,  pointing  aloft : 

"Nene,  the  moon  isn't  very  high  up,  is  it?" 

"Nene,"  said  Lalie,  "I  can  see  things  on  the 
moon !" 

"That's  a  little  man  you're  seeing,"  replied 
Madeleine;  "a  wee  little  man,  and  he's  very  old. 
He's  carrying  a  bundle  of  brushwood  on  his  back 
to  bake  his  bread." 

"Nene,"  inquired  Jo,  "what  is  behind  the 
clouds'?" 

"There's  Time,"  answered  Madeleine;  "that's 
where  God  lives." 

"Where  is  Paradise,  Nene?"  asked  Lalie. 

"My  darling,  we  can't  any  of  us  see  it  while  we're 
alive,  but  those  of  us  who  don't  love  sin  go  there 
when  they  die." 

"But,  Nene,"  said  Jo,  "how  can  they  climb  up 
and  stay  up  there,  so  high  in  the  air1?" 

"They  have  no  trouble  at  all — it's  difficult  to  ex- 
plain these  things." 

Lalie  pointed  to  the  quiet  water  that  mirrored 
the  deep  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  billowing  little 
clouds. 

"Look,  Nene !  there's  another  Time  at  the  bottom 
of  the  water!" 

"That's  the  nether  world,"  said  Madeleine. 

"Are  there  people  in  that  too?" 

"kYes,"  said  Madeleine,  "there  are." 


264  NENE 

"Nene,"  said  Jo,  "but  they  can't  be  comfy  down 
there!" 

Old  stories  told  her  by  that  half  crazy  old  aunt 
came  to  Madeleine's  lips;  but  they  frightened  chil- 
dren, and  therefore  Madeleine  thought  them  wicked; 
so  she  said  only  those  things  that  were  part  of  her 
faith. 

"There  are  three  worlds: — the  world  above  which 
is  good;  the  middle  world — that's  ours,  and  it's  both 
good  and  evil; — and  the  nether  world — God  save 
our  souls !  It's  a  poisonous  pit :  evil  rises  from  it  like 
a  cloud  of  black  smoke. — There  are  three  worlds, 
each  one  unlike  the  other  two.  We  know  only  one ; 
in  the  other  two  things  aren't  the  same;  nobody  can 
understand ;  our  eyes  won't  tell  us,  nor  our  ears." 

She  spoke  gently  and  her  grief  was  appeased.  As 
night  came  on,  a  great,  pitying  calm  descended  from 
on  high. 

"When  we  are  dead,  we  go  either  above  or  below, 
according  to  justice.  Those  up  above  are  the  people 
whose  hearts  were  loving:  they  love  us  still  and 
watch  over  us." 

"Do  you  mean  they  see  us?"  asked  Lalie. 

"They  see  us.    So,  my  little  darlings " 

She  paused,  not  knowing  how  to  put  into  words 
the  thought  that  welled  to  her  heart. 

"For  you,  there  is  help  above:  your  mother  is  in 
Paradise  and  watching  over  you.  She  loves  you — 
nobody  can  love  you  as  she  loves  you — nobody !" 


N  E  N  E  265 

The  children  were  silent  and  wide-eyed.  Made- 
leine went  on  thinking  aloud,  and  her  words  rose 
like  a  prayer. 

"She's  watching  over  you. — She'll  know  well 
enough  that  I  love  you,  too.  Lord,  let  her  be  of 
succour  to  me ! — If  I  must  go  away,  all  I  ask  is  that 
she  keep  them  from  forgetting  me." 

"But  you  won't  go  away,  Nene !"  said  Jo. 

"Do  you  mean  you  want  to  die*?"  asked  Lalie. 

She  made  no  answer. 

"If  you  died,  would  you  go  up  there,  too*?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You'd  have  to  go  up  there, — otherwise  how 
would  you  manage  to  watch  over  us?" 

Madeleine  drew  the  two  children  to  her  breast. 

"When  I  go  away,  perhaps  I  mayn't  be  able  to 
watch  over  you  any  more.  I'm  not  your  mother,  you 
see;  I'm — no,  I'm  not  your  mother.  Your  mother 
is  dead.  She  was  good,  that  little  mother  of  yours 
— ah,  much  better  than  me !  And  she  was  lovely  to 
look  at ! — There  never  will  be  a  lovelier  mother. — 
It's  her  you  must  love  best  of  all,  darlings — better 
than  me,  better  than  anybody!" 

She  spoke  slowly  and  in  a  low  voice  so  that  her 
words  might  make  a  deep,  lasting  impression  upon 
the  children. 

"You  can  love  all  the  others  also;  you  can  love 
me  a  lot — that  isn't  forbidden !  But  let  your  mother 
be  first  always — I  won't  be  jealous. — Yes,  you  may 


266  NENE 

love  me — and  when  you're  grown  up  you  may  say: 
'She  wasn't  our  mother,  but  we  remember  her  all 
the  same.' — That'll  be  my  share,  and  a  plenty." 

Lalie,  whose  thoughts  were  again  in  great  labour, 
asked: 

"You're  not  our  mother — nor  our  aunt,  nor  our 
cousin — and  here  you're  talking  of  going  away. 
Well  then,  what  are  you*?" 

"What  I  am?    What  I  am?' 

Jo  cuddled  his  head  against  Madeleine's  neck  and 
spoke  up,  quite  amazed  by  his  sister's  question : 

"What  is  she?    Why,  she's  Nene !" 

And,  that  evening,  they  huddled  close  to  each 
other  and  didn't  say  another  word. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

EVERYTHING  was  ready.  There  was  nothing 
more  to  do,  nothing  more  to  say.  It  was  use- 
less to  weep,  to  pray,  to  struggle  ...  all  that  was 
left  for  her  was  to  go. 

Only  one  more  night — scarcely  seven  or  eight 
hours 

The  wedding  was  set  for  Wednesday,  but  on 
Monday  Violette's  mother  was  to  come  with  part  of 
her  household  goods.  Madeleine  didn't  want  to  be 
there  to  make  welcome  this  woman  who  came  in 
triumph. 

For  the  last  time  she  had  undressed  the  children, 
forcing  herself  to  play  with  them  the  while  as  usual, 
so  they  wouldn't  feel  badly.  And  she  had  put  them 
both  in  her  own  bed.  For  the  last  time  she  had 
surrendered  her  head  to  Jo,  who  had  pulled  her  ears 
and  rumpled  her  hair — as  so  often  before. 

Now  Jo  and  Lalie  were  asleep.  In  the  men's 
room  the  new  farm-hand  had  stopped  moving  about. 
The  house  was  dark,  yet  outside,  the  twilight  was 
lingering  on  and  on. 

Madeleine  sat  down  by  the  open  window.  On  a 
chair  by  her  side  lay  a  little  bundle  of  clothes,  all 

that  remained  of  her  own  at  the  Moulinettes,  for 

267 


268  N  E  N  E 

her  other  belongings  had  already  gone.  Michael  had 
paid  her  off  that  morning. 

It  was  the  end. 

She  did  not  weep,  she  did  not  stir;  her  hair  fell 
into  her  face;  her  legs  and  arms  were  numb;  all 
her  life  was  concentrated  in  her  breast  where  her 
heart  was  beating  furiously. 

From  the  garden  the  border  pinks  sent  in  a  sweet 
fragrance ;  a  nightingale's  song  filled  the  room ;  then 
the  tree-frogs  began  to  make  themselves  heard  from 
the  direction  of  the  pond,  and  presently  their  count- 
less voices  were  heard  all  around. 

Madeleine  forced  herself  to  drown  the  ache  of 
her  heart  in  a  mumble  of  words : 

"Now  I  shan't  live  in  this  cosy  spot  any  more;  I'd 
grown  used  to  it  and  it  hurts  to  go.  I'll  be  lonesome 
for  this  nice  old  house,  for  the  pond,  for  the  stream 
where  I  did  my  washing.  Where  shall  I  find  a  gar- 
den that  suits  me  so  well  *?  I  shall  never  see  the  lilac 
bush  again,  nor  the  climbing  roses  in  the  front 
yard » 

She  tried  to  lose  her  heartache  along  these  little 
byways  of  thought.  Poor  girl ! — better  stick  to  the 
main  road !  The  sleeping  tots  whose  gentle  breath- 
ing you  can  hardly  hear,  hold  all  your  heart  in 
bonds. 

"I  was  the  mistress  here.  Everything  in  the  house 
went  as  I  said; — it  won't  be  the  same  elsewhere !" 

As  if  your  heart  cared  about  that ! 


N  E  N  E  269 

"I'll  be  ordered  about  roughly;  they'll  make  me 
work  in  the  fields  with  the  men." 

Why  do  you  try  to  fool  your  heart?  If  you  were 
asked,  you  wouldn't  mind  doing  the  work  of  a  farm- 
hand all  the  year  round; — you'd  plough  and  sow 
and  harvest,  fetch  and  carry,  no  matter  how  heavy 
the  load! 

"Good  evening,  Madeleine !" 

She  looked  up.  A  man  whom  she  had  not  heard 
come  in  was  standing  in  the  yard. 

"Good  evening,"  she  said. 

He  drew  nearer.  "Don't  you  recognise  me? 
Does  the  uniform  make  such  a  difference?" 

She  started  as  if  waking  out  of  a  sleep. 

"Gideon!" 

"Yes,  it's  me.  I've  had  a  furlough.  I'm  on  my 
way  now  to  catch  a  train  back,  at  Chateau-Blanc.  I 
didn't  have  much  time  this  trip,  or  else  I'd  have  paid 
you  a  real  long  visit." 

"I'd  have  been  very  glad,"  said  Madeleine. 
"Come  in." 

But  he  stepped  to  the  window  and  leaned  his 
arms  on  the  sill. 

"I  can't  stop.  I  haven't  got  time.  Is  the  boss 
at  home?" 

"He  hasn't  returned  yet,"  and  she  added,  with  a 
touch  of  scorn : 

"This  is  a  great  day  for  him;  he  got  himself  bap- 


270  N  E  N  E 

tised  at  Chantepie.  It's  a  triumph  for  the  Catholics. 
— But  you've  probably  heard  all  about  it." 

"Yes,  it's  being  talked  about  around  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  wedding  is  set  for  this  week?" 

"Wednesday." 

"And  so  you're  leaving  the  Moulinettes?  When 
are  you  going?" 

"To-morrow." 

Madeleine  turned  her  head  away.  The  gentle 
breathing  of  the  children  came  faintly  through  the 
silence  that  had  fallen  between  them.  Gideon  ven- 
tured in  a  low  voice : 

"It  hurts,  poor  Madeleine — I  know — — •" 

She  answered : 

"It  does."  Her  voice  was  the  voice  of  a  dying 
woman. 

He  said  nothing  more,  not  knowing  how  to  ex- 
press the  things  that  were  in  his  heart.  For  a  little 
while  he  stayed  on,  leaning  close  beside  her;  then 
he  took  her  hand  and  straightened  up. 

"Are  you  going  already?"  she  asked. 

"I've  got  to.  The  train  is  due  at  Chateau-Blanc 
at  a  quarter  past  ten.  I  wish  you  good  health  and 
good  courage,  Madeleine.  You  know  I'm  fond  of 
you.  I'd  like  to  see  you  happy.  We've  spent  four 
years  working  side  by  side — a  person  can't  forget 
that.  Besides,  there's  what  you  know,  between 
Tiennette  and  me. — Madeleine,  I'm  sorry  for  you 
with  all  my  heart. — I  wish  I  could  comfort  you. 


NENE  271 

Try  to  cry,  Madeleine — it  would  do  you  good." 

He  kept  her  hand,  saying  awkwardly,  endlessly: 
"Madeleine, — you  know,  poor  Madeleine — my  dear 
old  Madeleine "  until  she  herself  became  un- 
easy: 

"Aren't  you  forgetting  the  time,  Gideon?" 

He  paused,  a  little  embarrassed;  then  he  took  off 
his  dragoon's  helmet  and  said : 

"Madeleine,  I'd  like  to  kiss  you  good-bye,  if  you'll 
let  me." 

She  rose  and  offered  him  her  cheek. 

"Good-bye,  dear  boy." 

He  walked  off  a  few  steps,  stopped  and  turned 
around: 

"I  was  going  to  forget:  thank  you,  Madeleine, 
for  the  kind  letter  you  wrote  me — it  did  me  a  lot 
of  good." 

Madeleine's  mind  was  far  away,  but  she  inquired : 

"Have  you  seen  Tiennette?" 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  came  here  for. — There's  some- 
body else  I  wanted  to  meet  too,  a  wicked  red  wolf 
whose  teeth  I'd  have  liked  to  bash  in. — It  couldn't 
be  managed,  and  he  can  thank  his  stars !" 

"Whom  do  you  mean?" 

"Boiseriot.  I  saw  him  all  right,  but  I  couldn't  get 
him  alone !  Only  a  while  ago  I  saw  him  at  a  table 
at  the  inn,  at  Saint- Ambroise,  with  your  brother." 

"With  my  brother!" 

"Yes — it  was  a  surprise  to  me ! — They  sat  alone 


272  N  E  N  E 

in  a  corner  together,  drinking  brandy.  I  sat  down 
and  waited  for  Boiseriot  to  go  out  alone,  but  he 
didn't.  I  could  see  them  very  well ;  Boiseriot  acted 
as  if  he  was  drunk,  but  he  was  just  pretending,  be- 
cause I  saw  him  empty  his  glass  under  the  table.  As 
for  Trooper,  he  was  as  drunk  as  a  lord — I  heard 
him  shout :  'You  say  at  ten  o'clock  at  the  Belief  on- 
taine  crossroads'?  All  right!' — And  he  cussed  and 
banged  the  table  and  rolled  eyes  as  big  as  saucers. 
He  must  have  swallowed  an  awful  lot  of  brandy  to 
get  himself  in  such  a  state." 

Madeleine  said  half  to  herself : 

"When  he's  drunk  he's  like  crazy." 

The  clock  in  the  house  struck  the  hour. 

"Nine  o'clock!"  said  Gideon.  "I'll  have  to 
hurry. — Good-bye,  Madeleine !" 

And  he  vanished  in  the  deepening  shadows  of  the 
night. 

Madeleine  had  not  risen  to  see  him  off,  nor  waved 
good-bye,  nor  moved  at  all:  she  was  so  tired,  so 
weary  and  worn-out. 

She  was  fond  of  her  good  young  comrade,  but 
she  was  feeling  so  utterly  miserable  just  now !  She 
was  feeling  so  miserable  that  Gideon  and  Tiennette 
and  Trooper  and  all  the  rest  were  almost  indifferent 
to  her. 

Her  mind  was  not  very  clear.  What  was  it 
Gideon  had  said?  Trooper  was  drunk; — Boiseriot 
made  him  drink  brandy.  Why?  "At  ten  o'clock 


N  E  N  E  273 

at  the  Belief  on  taine  crossroads  -  "  It  was  prob- 
ably some  sort  of  wager,  some  prank  that  would  fur- 
nish the  gossips  with  something  new  to  talk  about. 
Poor  brother!  He  too  chafed  under  his  sorrow;  his 
weak  character  did  not  stand  up  against  adversity. 
He  was  getting  drunk  very  often  now;  only  the 
other  day  —  when  was  it?  —  his  eyes  had  been 


"Oh,  my  God!" 

Madeleine  jumped  to  her  feet,  but  her  legs  bent 
under  her  and  she  fell  back  into  her  chair.  One 
memory  among  the  many  had  come  to  the  fore,  cut 
its  way  through  like  a  pointed  blade  of  steel.  She 
saw  again  that  big  threatening  hand  upraised: 

"If  I  meet  that  man  —  God  pity  him  !"  She  un- 
derstood now  ! 

For  a  moment  she  remained  aghast.  She  did  not 
hear  the  words  that  came  brokenly  from  her  lips: 

"The  wicked  red  wolf  —  ten  o'clock  —  at  Bellefon- 
taine  —  that's  on  Michael's  way  —  on  Michael's 
way." 

She  sprang  up,  rushed  out  of  the  house,  calling: 

"Gideon!    Gideon!" 

But  her  voice  was  choked  and  didn't  carry.  She 
ran  across  the  garden  and  out  along  the  road  to 
Chateau-Blanc. 

"Gideon!    Gideon!    Help!" 

No  answer  came.    She  wrung  her  hands. 


274  N  E  N  E 

"It's  my  fault! — It's  my  fault !^-I  prayed  for  it! 
— Damnation !" 

Like  one  demented  she  ran  across  fields  toward 
Bellefontaine.  The  footpaths  were  no  longer  visible 
in  the  darkness;  she  lost  her  way  in  a  wide  meadow 
and  couldn't  find  the  stile;  she  ran  against  a  bushy 
hedge,  broke  through  between  two  thorny  shrubs 
with  a  great  thrust  of  all  her  body  and  rolled  on  the 
other  side  into  a  deep  ditch. 

Her  heart  failed  her;  she  had  to  stay  sitting  in 
the  ditch  for  a  moment.  A  night  bird  flew  by,  utter- 
ing its  cry.  With  a  great  effort  she  got  up;  her 
hands,  raised  high,  tore  at  each  other.  The  cry  of 
the  owl  had  given  birth  to  a  thought  and  against  the 
monstrosity  of  it  she  struggled  with  appalled  des- 
peration. 

"No!  no! — Not  at  that  price! — I  don't  want 
them  to  be  orphans ! — I  never  wanted  that ! — I  am 
cursed !  I  am  cursed !" 

She  ran  on,  gasping  for  breath. 

"I'm  cursed  if  I  don't  get  there  hi  time !" 

Above  the  hedges  she  saw  a  great  black  mass:  it 
was  the  Bellefontaine  woods,  and  the  road  ran  along 
its  edge.  Three  more  fields  to  cross, — one  more. — 
She  reached  the  woods;  her  feet  stumbled  no  more 
now,  but  went  on  as  in  a  dream.  There  are  two 
ancient  oak  trees  that  twine  their  branches  over  the 
crossroads.  She  ran  straight  to  them  and  her  hands 


NENE  275 

fell  heavily  on  the  shoulders  of  a  man  who  was 
crouching  there  between  the  twin  tree  trunks. 

"John,  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

The  man  straightened  up  and  stepped  back: 

"Madeleine!" 

"Yes,  me ! — Come  away,  this  instant !" 

Her  voice  rang  harsh  and  cutting, — command- 
ingly.  His  answer  was  a  wild,  terrible,  insane  burst 
of  laughter. 

"John,  do  you  hear  me? — Walk  ahead  of  me!" 

"You  mind  your  own  business !  Go  on  home  and 
to  bed !  Honest  girls  don't  run  about  on  the  public 
roads  at  night." 

Slowly,  heavily  he  pushed  her  back, — back 
through  the  trees,  back  into  a  wide  field  where  the 
night  seemed  less  black.  Madeleine  clung  to  her 
brother's  arm. 

"Come,  John,  come  away  with  me !" 

But  he  shook  her  off  with  a  last  push  and  raised 
his  arm  threateningly. 

"Clear  out!" 

"John,  why  are  you  here?" 

'To  deal  death!— Get  out!" 

Madeleine  came  back  close,  darted  at  his  raised 
arm  which  held  a  weapon  aloft. 

"What  have  you  in  your  hand?  Give  it  to  me! 
Do  you  hear?" 

She  climbed  against  him,  pulled  down  his  wrist 


276  N  E  N  E 

and  seized  the  weapon — a  roadmender's  hammer 
with  a  long  holly  handle. 

She  struggled  and  wheedled,  she  commanded  and 
pleaded,  she  shamed  him  and  flattered  him. 

"Give  it  to  me,  John !  You've  been  drinking,  you* 
don't  know  what  you're  doing!  Boiseriot  made  you 
drunk — the  fiend! — I've  come  to  fetch  you,  to  lead 
you  by  the  hand. — You  must  come  with  me,  you 
must  believe  me! — Here!  give  me  that  thing  at 
once!  What  do  you  want  with  it?  John,  think  of 
waylaying  anybody  like  this! — You're  mad — and 
you're  a  coward ! — Do  you  hear  me? — If  you  have  a 
grievance  against  someone,  have  it  out  with  him  in 
the  open ! — You're  a  coward,  a  beastly  coward !" 

"There's  no  cowardice  about  it — it's  got  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  I'm  out  to  kill — first  him,  then  my- 
self!" 

"Give  me  that  thing,  come  on,  give  it  to  me! — 
Won't  you?  Of  course  you  will !" 

Crack!  Suddenly,  slyly,  Madeleine  had  broken 
the  flexible  handle.  She  grabbed  the  hammer-head 
and  hurled  it  away  as  far  as  she  could. 

"Now,  will  you  come  with  me?" 

Again  that  insane  laughter  rumbled  from  his 
throat. 

"I'm  out  to  kill ! — I  have  my  knife  and,  besides,  I 
don't  need  any  weapon,  not  even  a  stick! — I  open 
my  hand  and  I  close  it. — Death,  that's  what  I'm 
here  for !  You  get  out !" 


N  E  N  E  277 

"John,  you'll  be  eternally  damned — and  I  too,  I 
too! — You  don't  know! — Those  two  poor  children 
— sleeping  so  quietly  over  there — come  and  see 
them !  What  have  they  done  to  you,  the  poor  little 
innocents'?" 

"Death,  that's  what  I  want! — There's  nothing  to 
say.  Get  out  of  my  way !" 

Madeleine  clung  to  him,  held  him  tight  with  both 
her  arms  for  a  last  appeal — and  lied  desperately: 

"Listen,  I  won't  let  you — I  love  him!  Yes,  I 
love  him ! — I  didn't  want  to  tell  you  at  first — I  was 
too  ashamed.  Now  you  know! — I  won't  have  you 
hurt  him !  It  would  kill  me,  I  tell  you ! — You  won't 
hurt  him,  will  you? — John,  my  own  big  brother! — 
Come !  let's  go  away — yes,  yes,  let's  go !  Listen,  I'll 
prevent  the  marriage;  I  can,  still!  You  see  that 
it's  best  for  you  to  mind  me ! — I  say  you'll  not  touch 
him!  I'll  defend  him!  I'll  scream  as  soon  as  he 
comes  hi  sight; — and  shame  will  be  on  us — on  you, 
on  me,  on  all  the  family !" 

Roughly  he  freed  himself  with  a  shake  of  his 
powerful  shoulders. 

"Get  out  of  my  way !"  He  thrust  her  away  and 
made  for  the  trees. 

"You  think  so?    You  wait!" 

Madeleine  leaped  forward ;  with  arms  spread  wide 
she  threw  herself  on  her  brother,  lifted  him  off  his 
feet  and  carried  him  off.  With  a  twist  of  his  back 
he  escaped  from  her  grasp  and  touched  the  ground 


278  N  E  N  E 

again;  and  his  big  hand  came  down  on  her.  Made- 
leine felt  her  arms  go  weak;  an  irresistible  force 
hurled  her  far  away  and  her  head  rang  against  a  tree 
trunk. 

She  found  herself  flat  on  her  back;  the  field 
whirled  around  and  around  her;  the  ground  heaved 
and  fell;  above,  the  stars  were  dancing;  then  noth- 
ingness. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  she  saw  a  big 
head  bent  over  her  and  under  her  shoulders  she  felt 
a  shaking  arm.  Trooper  was  kneeling  beside  her, 
completely  sobered, — sobbing  and  pleading  with  in- 
finite gentleness. 

"Madeleine,  wake  up! — Sister,  forgive  me! — 
Madeleine,  tell  me  you're  not  hurt — that  I  didn't 
do  you  harm ! — — " 

Madeleine  looked  at  him,  bewildered.  Suddenly 
memory  returned.  She  uttered  a  cry  and  with  hands 
still  weak  gripped  her  brother's  shoulders.  He 
leaned  down  closer  and  said  in  a  very  low,  shamed 
voice : 

"Don't  be  afraid:  he's  gone  past;  by  now  he  must 
be  at  the  Moulinettes. — As  for  me,  my  madness  is 
over. — Madeleine,  what  did  I  do  to  you*?  Tell  me 
there's  no  limb  broken " 

Madeleine,  raising  herself  painfully,  had  the  cour* 
age  to  smile. 

"No,  nothing's  broken.  I  had  a  sudden  weakness, 
that's  all. — Help  me  to  get  up,  will  you?" 


NENE  279 

When  she  was  up,  she  had  to  go  on  leaning  on 
him;  so  he  said: 

"Would  you  like  me  to  carry  you?" 

She  didn't  answer;  she  was  thinking. 

"John,"  she  said  at  last,  "when  you  were  a  little 
fellow,  I  used  to  lead  you  along  the  roads. — I  wasn't 
much  bigger  than  you,  but  I  knew  the  short-cuts 
better. — To-day  you're  losing  your  way,  John,  and 
once  more  I  have  to  put  you  on  the  right  road." 

He  replied  in  the  gentle  voice  of  his  hours  of 
distress : 

"Lead  me,  sister." 

"John,  you  must  go  away  from  these  parts  for  a 
time ;  you  must  leave — right  away — this  very  night ! 
Walk  all  through  the  night  and  if  you're  not  far 
enough  away  by  morning,  keep  on  walking  through 
the  day. — You  said  you'd  find  work  easily  in  town : 
— go  to  town  then.  Here's  some  money  for  the  first 
days  of  waiting; — here,  take  it! — When  you're  over 
this  trouble  and  feeling  all  right  again,  you  can 
come  back.  John,  don't  you  think  that's  the  best 
thing  to  do?" 

"Lead  me,  sister." 

She  took  him  by  the  hand  and  together  they  came 
down  through  the  woods.  When  they  reached  the 
road,  they  kissed  each  other.  Then  she  said : 

"Go  now,  dear." 

And  slowly  he  walked  away. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IT  was  nearly  midnight  when  Madeleine  returned 
to  the  Moulinettes.  The  door  was  ajar,  as  she 
had  left  it,  for  Michael  had  gone  in  by  the  back  way 
as  he  always  did.  She  went  in  on  tiptoe  and,  quick, 
quick,  without  a  stop  for  breath,  she  undressed  and 
dropped  into  bed. 

The  two  children  had  slipped  into  the  depression 
in  the  middle ;  she  separated  them  and  lay  down  be- 
tween them  and,  slipping  her  arms  under  their  soft 
little  bodies,  she  lay  quite  still,  eyes  staring — 
crucified. 

Her  head  buzzed;  not  a  thought,  not  a  memory 
there ;  nothing  but  the  stupor  of  a  poor  animal  that 
has  been  struck  down. 

A  great  weight  lay  on  her  chest,  suffocating  her. 
She  drew  her  arms  free  and  sat  up;  the  children 
stirred ;  with  infinite  precautions  she  drew  them  close 
to  her  again  and  laid  their  heads  in  her  lap. 

The  clock  struck  one.  Madeleine  had  the  sensa- 
tion of  a  cold  wind  striking  her  forehead;  her  hair 
rose  on  her  head.  She  could  not  weep,  nor  could  she 
breathe.  Her  head  went  back  and  through  her  open 
lips  passed  a  hoarse,  heart-rending  moan. 

In  the  men's  room  across  the  hall,  Michael  had 

just  waked  up  and,  hearing  her,  called  out: 

280 


NENE  281 

"Madeleine — Madeleine,  are  you  ill?" 

There  came  no  answer.  He  listened  a  little  longer 
and,  hearing  no  more,  dropped  off  to  sleep  again. 

She  had  thrown  herself  forward  and  bitten  deep 
into  the  blankets. 

The  children  were  uncomfortable  and  now  began 
to  be  restless.  She  had  to  straighten  up  again. 

The  moans  sounded  afresh.    "My  little  babies !" 

She  drew  them  closer  and  closer,  gathered  them 
up  against  her,  brought  near  their  arms,  crooked  their 
little  legs.  Her  hands  would  not  stop  fondling 
them,  gliding  over  them  slowly  in  an  endless  caress. 

The  night  rolled  by;  the  window-panes  began  to 
whiten;  a  cock,  at  the  far  end  of  the  yard,  saluted 
the  day  with  his  cruel  crow. 

"My  babies! — Good-bye,  my  babies!" 

She  began  to  shake  so  hard  that  she  was  afraid  it 
would  wake  them.  For  a  minute  she  managed  to 
control  herself;  she  folded  them  to  her  more  closely 
still,  drew  up  her  knees,  bent  down  her  head,  and 
her  hands  spread  over  as  much  of  them  as  they  could 
cover. 

"Good-bye!  .  .  ." 

She  laid  the  two  little  heads  back  on  the  bolster, 
put  her  feet  on  the  floor  and,  dragging  herself  up 
by  the  blankets,  she  raised  herself  out  of  bed  at  last. 

She  lighted  a  candle  and  came  back  to  the  bed  to 
put  on  her  clothes  hastily.  A  horribly  painful  shiver 
passed  over  all  her  cold  body;  her  teeth  chattered. 


282  N  E  N  E 

Her  hands  kept  on  busily,  fastening  her  skirt,  but- 
toning her  bodice;  But  her  wide,  staring  eyes  never 
moved.  It  was  with  her  look  now  that  she  touched 
the  two  brown  little  heads,  fondled  them,  sank  her- 
self into  them. 

All  at  once  she  blew  out  the  candle.  She  made 
three  steps  away,  then  ran  back  and  fell  across  the 
bed  with  arms  spread  wide. 

And  once  more  the  dreadful  moans  arose. 

She  touched  them  again,  she  pressed  her  lips  on 
the  warm  baby  flesh,  anywhere,  everywhere,  just  as 
it  happened. 

At  last  she  stiffened  and  drew  back;  but  the  little 
boy  had  half  waked  up  and  threw  his  arms  around 
her  neck,  clutching  a  strand  of  her  hair  with  his 
hand.  Madeleine  pressed  to  her  cheek  the  closed 
little  fist  and,  with  one  jerk,  she  pulled  her  hair 
out  by  the  roots. 

Then  she  ran  to  the  door  and  fled,  with  her  apron 
stuffed  into  her  mouth. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EARLY  one  morning  two  sad  women  were  going 
about  the  household  tasks  in  a  low  thatched 
cottage.  One  of  them  was  preparing  the  breakfast 
soup,  the  other,  her  daughter,  was  folding  up  and 
packing  her  work  clothes. 

"Now  I'll  say  good-bye,  mother." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  eat  something?  You've  got 
a  long  walk  ahead,  remember! — Have  some  soup, 
anyhow !" 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  want  anything." 

"Aren't  you  feeling  well*?" 

She  shook  her  head  by  way  of  answer  and  her  lips 
quivered. 

"You  must  be  ill,  Madeleine !" 

"I'd  rather  be  ill.  .  .  .  I'd  rather  be  dead !" 

The  mother  crossed  herself,  then  lifted  toward 
her  daughter  her  bony  hands  with  the  stiff  joints — 
stiff  from  being  so  much  in  the  suds. 

"Madeleine,  I  don't  like  the  way  you  talk.  We 
mustn't  invite  trouble,  but  we  must  take  it  as  it 
comes.  Have  a  good  cry — that'll  relieve  you.  For 
all  of  two  weeks  now  you've  let  this  thing  gnaw  at 
you  like  a  bad  fever;  is  it  sensible  to  work  yourself 
into  a  falling  sickness  just  because  you're  going  to 

283 


284  NENE 

a  new  place?  Only  thirty,  and  handsome  and  big 
and  strong  as  you  are"?  If  your  sisters  could  only 
see  you,  what  would  they  say?" 

Slowly  she  passed  her  crinkled  fir.gers  over  the  full 
shoulders  and  the  ample  arms. 

"Come,  now,  drink  your  coffee,  I've  put  a  drop  of 
brandy  in  it. — There  now!  Off  you  go;  do  your 
work  and  do  it  so  your  new  masters  will  be  pleased 
with  you." 

Madeleine  took  her  bundle  and  went  on  her  way. 

A  little  down  the  road  she  halted.  The  heat  of 
the  sun  was  beginning  to  make  itself  felt;  she  found 
that  her  ill-adjusted  bundle  was  too  big,  too  round 
and  awkward.  So  she  sat  down  to  repack  it;  but  as 
she  unfolded  a  warm,  plushy  garment,  her  heartache 
revived  bitterly. 

It  was  this  jacket  she  used  to  wrap  around  Jo's 
cold  little  feet,  over  there,  at  the  farm  of  Michael 
Corbier,  who  was  no  longer  in  need  of  a  hired  girl 
any  more.  And  here  was  the  half-burned  apron  with 
which  she  had  thrown  herself  on  Lalie,  that  awful 
day. 

Memories  were  crowding  each  other  within  her. 

She  saw  herself  again  coming  to  the  home  of  the 
young  widower  who  had  lost  his  grip  on  life.  She 
had  loved  him  with  a  love  that  was  sad  and  gentle 
and  quite  without  hope.  .  .  .  But  very  soon  the 
children  had  taken  the  first  place  in  her  heart ;  for  a 
long  time  now  they  had  held  sovereign  sway  in  it. 


NENE  285 

They  had  given  her  so  much  happiness  and  they 
had  caused  her  so  much  anxiety. 

She  remembered  their  Sunday  walks,  their  games 
by  the  pond.  .  .  .  She  remembered  the  troubled 
hours,  the  anguished  watches  by  Lalie's  bed.  That 
last  memory  was  to  her  like  a  savage  tear  in  her 
flesh;  she  would  never  cease  hearing  those  plaintive 
cries : 

"Nene!    It  hurts,  Nene !" 

Lord  knew  they  had  captured  her  heart :  Jo  with 
his  square  little  paws  that  refused  to  be  kept  clean; 
Lalie  with  her  pitiful,  martyred  little  fingers. 

Two  weeks  had  gone  by  since  she  had  left  the  chil- 
dren, since  she  had  untied  from  about  her  neck  the 
little  arms  that  had  entwined  it  in  the  abandon  of 
sleep.  She  could  hear  their  astonished  cry  that  first 
morning  after  she  was  gone  : 

"Nene!    Nene!    Where  are  you,  Nene?" 

Now  she  had  hired  herself  out  down  valley,  at 
the  farm  of — she  couldn't  even  remember  the  name ! 

She  got  up  again  and  as  her  grief  was  too  plainly 
marked  on  her  face  she  left  the  main  road  and  took 
a  side-path — a  path  that  happened  to  pass  by  the 
Moulinettes. 

Her  heart  bounded  in  her  breast  and  her  legs  felt 
very  tired. 

As  she  came  to  a  stile,  a  ploughman  called: 

"Hello,  Madeleine!" 


286  N  E  N  E 

She  raised  her  head.  It  was  Corbier.  He  looked 
happy  and  friendly. 

"Good  morning,"  she  replied.  "I  see  you're  at 
the  ploughing." 

"Yes,  ploughing  for  feed  corn.  I've  got  a  new 
plough — the  old  one  is  too  heavy  for  this.  I  bought 
a  real  beauty — come  and  see !" 

He  was  too  absorbed  in  his  latest  pride  to  notice 
the  poor,  straining  face.  She  asked : 

"Are  the  children  well?" 

"As  well  as  can  be,  thank  you. — At  first  they  kept 
asking  for  you,  but  now  everything  goes  on  oiled 
wheels.  Violette  has  brought  them  around  to  her." 

She  turned  her  face  away.  Only  then  did  he 
notice  how  disturbed  she  was  and  he  said  good- 
naturedly  : 

"You  know,  Madeleine,  you've  given  us,  all 
through  four  years,  your  best  work  and  your  best 
affection.  Whenever  you  feel  like  dropping  in  at 
the  Moulinettes,  we'll  count  it  a  pleasure. — And  I 
hope  you  may  live  in  happiness  and  health,  Made- 
leine." 

"I  wish  you  the  same. — Thank  you,  Corbier." 

And  she  went  on  her  way,  sobbing. 

Yes,  she'd  go  back  to  the  Moulinettes — right 
away — as  long  as  she  had  come  so  near.  "At  first 
they  kept  asking  for  you,  but  Violette  has  brought 
them  around  to  her."  Just  like  that,  in  a  fortnight ! 
It  was  enough  to  make  anyone  laugh! — Brought 


N  E  N  E  287 

them  around  to  her?  But  how?  With  candy,  per- 
haps.— That  would  be  the  only  way  she'd  think  of, 
the  wicked  thing!  She  couldn't  possibly  win  them 
with  affection  because  she  had  no  heart — as 
Madeleine  knew  well  enough. 

She'd  brought  them  around  to  her!  Indeed! — 
That  did  make  her  laugh !  Well,  they'd  see !  ... 
Thinking  ahead,  she  bent  her  neck  as  if  she  felt  al- 
ready the  little  arms  around  it.  The  darlings !  .  .  . 
No,  never  would  they  forget  her !  Wasn't  she  their 
true  mother?  Do  children  forget  their  mother  in  a 
fortnight? 

She  took  the  turn  of  the  village  road  almost  on 
the  run  and  came  up  to  the  house.  The  door  stood 
open ;  she  went  in. 

"Good  morning,  Violette !" 

"Good  morning.  What  do  you  want?  Did  you 
forget  something?" 

"No — I  was  just  passing. — I  met  Corbier  and  he 
asked  me  to  drop  in." 

Violette  drew  herself  up  in  her  victorious  hatred : 

"You  don't  say!" 

"Yes  .  .  .  whenever  I'd  like  to  .  .  .  if  it  doesn't 
inconvenience  you,  Violette.  .  .  ." 

"Unfortunately  it  would  inconvenience  me.  If 
I'm  mistress  here,  it  isn't  your  fault,  is  it?  Your 
place  is  not  in  my  house,  no  more  than  in  the  fields 
where  my  man  is  working." 


288  N  E  N  E 

"Oh,  Violette!  Don't  be  so  wicked!  Just  this 
once — I'd  like  to  see  the  children !" 

Violette  smiled  cruelly. 

"Very  well !  But  you're  going  to  be  disappointed. 
— Here  is  Lalie  now." 

The  little  girl  came  in  from  the  hall. 

Madeleine  took  her  in  her  arms,  lifted  her  high 
up,  covered  her  with  kisses,  again  and  again  and 
again,  on  the  eyes,  on  the  forehead,  on  the  scarred 
cheek,  on  the  poor  little  deformed  fingers.  "You 
bring  them  around?  Why,  this  is  the  way  to  win 
them." 

The  child  let  Madeleine  fondle  her  but  gave 
no  response. 

"Have  you  still  got  your  little  necklace,  darling*?" 

"Mamma  gave  me  a  gold  one,  much  prettier  than 
yours !" 

"Don't  you  love  me  any  more,  Lalie?" 

The  child  hesitated. 

"Yes,  Madeleine." 

"Say,  Nene!" 

"Oh,  I  can  say  Madeleine  now." 

Her  heart  was  buzzing  like  a  disturbed  hive.  Vio- 
lette kept  on  smiling  and  showed  her  sharp  teeth. 

"Where  is  Jo?" 

"In  his  bed  in  the  other  room — you  know  the 
way." 

Madeleine  flew  to  him. 

"Jo!  my  little  Jo!" 


NENE  289 

Madeleine  spread  her  big  hands  over  the  naked 
little  body. 

But  the  child  did  not  stretch  out  his  arms  as  he 
used  to  do.  On  the  contrary :  he  squirmed  and  struck 
at  her. 

"I'm  not  Jojo  any  more !     I'm  a  big  man  now !" 

"My  baby!" 

"I  don't  like  you!  Go  away!  You  aren't  nice! 
you've  got  a  smell  like  cheese." 

With  a  deep  sob  that  shook  her  whole  being, 
Madeleine  fled. 

At  the  end  of  the  garden  she  stumbled  against  the 
gate,  but  on  she  ran;  she  dropped  her  bundle,  she 
dropped  her  wooden  shoes,  but  she  kept  on  running 
— straight  to  the  pond,  to  a  spot  where  the 
water  was  black  and  deep;  running — running — 
running 

She  came  up  to  the  surface  at  once,  her  lungs  full 
of  water.  A  thousand  ripples  splashed  against  her 
face — a  thousand  little  voices  sang  in  her  ears  mock- 
ingly: 

"Nene!    Nene!    Nene!" 

Consciousness  went — and  she  slipped  down  to  the 
muddy  bed. 

Then  a  few  bubbles  came  up — and  once  more  the 
water  was  calm. 

Lazy  clouds  moved  in  the  sky  like  a  flock  of 
white  sheep.  The  sun  stood  high.  It  was  a  peace- 
ful, glorious  morning. 


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